


Down There By The Train

by HailMary



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blood, Forgiveness, M/M, Trains, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:43:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 61,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HailMary/pseuds/HailMary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hero of the Greeks. Scourge of Troy. Undefeated in battle. Killer of children. Prince. </p><p>Monster.</p><p>Achilles Pelides.</p><p> </p><p>How do you love a monster?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. speak of the devil

The dawn wind plucked at Patroclus’ white cotton shirt as he scrambled down a steep track of forest and into his favorite place in this part of Anatolia. The small clearing was a gorgeous one: fall had descended with a vengeance, burning the leaves on the trees with a dizzying mixture of red, orange, and yellow; soft, hairy moss crawled across the shadier parts of the trees and rocks; songbirds he wasn’t familiar with spoke to each other across the branches. But the best part of the clearing by far were the overgrown, abandoned train tracks that bisected the weedy grass, and the old, rusted-out train car that sat on upon them.

Patroclus loved it. He didn’t know how the maroon train car had found its way to this lonely place, and he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Whatever the train car had been before, whatever purpose it had served, it was something else entirely now. Spiders skittered around its dark corners. Squirrels and rabbits nested in the dry leaves that drifted across its floor. It was full of life.

A brisk walk took Patroclus from the edge of the clearing to the flat boulder he’d been using the past few days as a thinking stool. Sometimes, from this angle, if the light of the rising sun slanted through the leaves just right, it looked as if the train car were moving. Like Patroclus could hop on and go wherever he wanted, if only he had the courage to duck inside.

The daydream was a pleasant one, but only lasted as long as the light did. The reality the daydream left behind was desolate, but it was a splendid desolation.

Farther out in the forest, something large rustled the bracken, pulling Patroclus from his thoughts. Probably a deer. As far as Patroclus could tell, no predators – human or non-human – frequented this place. Years ago, in the months after Greece had taken Troy and the rest of Anatolia with it, these woods might have housed rebel Trojans, but no longer; all those who resisted had long since been terminated.

The bracken rustled again, louder and closer. Patroclus lifted his head. A muted, rhythmic pounding accompanied the rustles. Footsteps…human…cut off abruptly in the trees to the left of the train car.

“Who’s there?” Patroclus called out. He scrambled to his feet, wishing he had listened to Briseis and brought a gun, a taser, anything.

A branch snapped.

Patroclus struggled to remember his military training, but nothing came. If he’d been less scared, he might have sighed; he’d made an awful soldier. Lacking a better plan, he scanned the forest floor for a sharp-looking rock.

Before he could find one, a muscular arm wrapped itself around Patroclus’ neck, pressing into his trachea, while another arm snaked around his waist, crushing Patroclus’ left elbow into his ribs. Desperate and flooded with adrenaline, Patroclus slammed his unrestrained elbow into the man’s belly, then reached up to claw at the man’s arm.

The man handled Patroclus as easily as a child, using Patroclus’ trapped left arm to bat away his right. “Don’t move, stay silent, and you will live,” the man whispered into Patroclus’ ear. He tightened his grip on Patroclus’ throat. “Nod if you agree.”

Patroclus nodded as well as he could while being strangled. The arms around him loosened and lowered his body swiftly to the ground.

“I’ll be right back,” whispered the man, and the arms were gone.

Patroclus sat there, legs stretched in front of him, breaths coming shallow and quick. His heart beat like a rabbit’s. Off to the left, where he had heard the footsteps earlier, there was the sudden sound of shoes scuffling through dirt. A high-pitched cry rang out. Complete silence reigned for a long moment after, only to be broken by the sound of uneven, dragging footsteps coming in the direction of the clearing.

Patroclus picked up a rock, hefting its weight in his hand. Careful not to make any noise, he climbed to his feet and crouched behind a convenient tree trunk. He peered around the edges of the clearing, trying to look everywhere at once.

His vigilance was rewarded quickly when a man – _the_ man, Patroclus thought, who had threatened him just minutes ago – walked into the clearing. He was young and well-formed: tall and broad in the chest and shoulder, and covered in lean, powerful muscle. In contrast, his features were fine and delicate, easily mistaken for those of a woman. His blond hair, matted with twigs and dirt, was piled into a loose bun on top of his head. He had on a pair of military fatigue pants and a standard issue army top.

The most alarming thing about the man, however, was the bright red blood that stained his shirt, that flowed through his hands and dripped onto the ground. The man made it as far as the train car and sat heavily, staring at his stomach.

The sight of someone in need of medical attention activated Patroclus in a way that being attacked hadn’t. Jolted into motion, he dropped the rock and darted into the clearing. The man looked up and stared straight into Patroclus’ eyes. “Told you not to move,” he said softly, the corners of his plump lips twitching upwards.

Patroclus froze. The man’s eyes were green, the deep green of the moss on the trees. Worse, those eyes were familiar. Patroclus looked the man over again, only this time he _saw_. He knew this man. Everyone in Anatolia, Greece, and beyond knew this man.

Hero of the Greeks. Scourge of Troy. Undefeated in battle. Killer of children. Prince.

Monster.

Achilles Pelides.

The beginning of the smile on Achilles’ lips faded.

Patroclus berated himself internally. It didn’t matter if Achilles was demon or angel; as of that moment, he was a patient. All judgments could be reserved until the patient was healed.

With renewed determination, Patroclus marched to Achilles and kneeled clumsily before him. Fiery leaves crackled beneath his knees. “Lay down,” he ordered calmly, pushing gently on Achilles shoulder. He tried not to think about whom he was touching. “Sitting up like that will make you bleed faster.”

Achilles did as he was bid, the little smile back on his face. “What are you, a doctor?”

“Yes,” Patroclus said simply, taking Achilles’ pulse as he spoke. Weak, but steady. Not bad. “Aren’t you lucky. Move your hands.” The wound was mercifully shallow, but long, covering almost the entire length of Achilles’ stomach. There was no stiffness or pain that would indicate internal bleeding.

Knowing there wasn’t much else he could do, Patroclus pulled his own shirt over his head and bunched up the fabric. Then he pressed the fabric over the wound and pulled Achilles’ hands on top of it. Although they were covered in blood, Achilles’ hands were elegant, graceful. They didn’t seem like the hands that could strangle the life out of someone. “Keep pressure here. Don’t let up.”

He wiped his own bloodied hands on his pants and fumbled his phone from his pocket. He glanced at the screen; no service. He didn’t try to stop his frustrated grunt.    

“My pack is just over that rise,” Achilles said, nodding his head in the direction of the rising sun. His hair had fallen out of the bun almost completely, falling around his head in dirty tendrils of gold. “There’s a satellite phone in it.”

Patroclus followed Achilles’ eyes to the east, but hesitated. “Is it safe?” he finally asked, a little ashamed of his cowardice but unwilling to risk getting stabbed himself. Who knew what was wandering the woods? And they must have been a special kind of dangerous too, if they landed a hit on the great Achilles.

“Oh, yes,” said Achilles, his green eyes frosting over with cold rage. Shivers crept down Patroclus’ spine. “You’ll be fine.” His confident voice warmed. “Even if it wasn’t safe, it wouldn’t matter. I’m here.”

Patroclus let his face fall forward into his palms and rubbed vigorously, working his courage up and his fear out. “I’m assuming you were there when you were stabbed as well,” he muttered into his hands. When he put them down, Achilles was looking at him oddly. Patroclus stood quickly. “Right, well. Just a second.”

Goosebumps rose on his arms as he dashed over the rise. Without a shirt, the crisp morning air was uncomfortably cold, and Patroclus felt uncomfortably exposed. The burn of Achilles’ eyes on his bare back as he moved was impossible to ignore. He felt like a mouse caught in the shadow of a hawk.

The small canvas pack was leaned against the base of a tall tree just on the other side of the rise. Patroclus grabbed it by the strap and ran back to the clearing.

He knelt beside Achilles again and drew open the drawstring that cinched the bag closed. There wasn’t much inside: a few protein bars, a bottle of water, a package of hair clips, hair brush, lip balm. A ridiculously soft gray cable knit sweater, which Patroclus immediately yanked out and draped over Achilles’ chest. And, underneath everything, the phone.

Achilles plucked it neatly from his hands. Patroclus dove forward to take over applying pressure to the stab would. For his part, Achilles unlocked the phone, waited for the signal to go through, and sent a message, his fingers spidering across the surface of the screen. Then he laid the phone on the bed of leaves next to his head and leaned back.

“My people will be here soon,” he said, his eyes trained once again on Achilles. “They’ll follow the phone to us.”

Patroclus could only nod.

“So,” continued Achilles, voice only a little shaky. “What’s your name?”

“Patroclus.”

“Patroclus.” Achilles echoed. He said the name slowly, like he wanted to catch the flavor of it. Another shiver crawled down Patroclus’ spine. “I’m Achilles.”

Patroclus let his eyes flick from the wound to Achilles’ face. “I know.”

“Everyone does, I suppose,” answered Achilles thoughtfully. He smiled, a real smile. It was like sunlight bursting through clouds. What a paradox. “And what are you doing in the middle of nowhere, Patroclus?”

“My friend runs an organization that provides medical care to rural villages. I help her as much as I can. We’ve been in Belen for a week now. It’s not far from here. And I like to walk in the morning.” Patroclus took a deep breath. “Why are you out here? Aren’t you too famous to be without guards?”

Undiluted rage forked across Achilles’ face before vanishing as if it never were. “I had guards. They were the ones who tried to kill me.” He shrugged. “This was supposed to be a hunting trip. Vacation.”

“How many of them were there?” Patroclus knew his eyes were wide open. He couldn’t help himself.

“Five.”

Achilles had been ambushed by five of his own guards and escaped with nothing more than a minor stab wound. He spoke as if it were nothing. Perhaps to Achilles, it was nothing.

“Why did they want to kill you?” Patroclus asked.

“I’m the best of the Greeks. A lot of people want to kill me for a lot of different reasons,” Achilles stated, matter-of-fact. He put his hands on top of Patroclus’. They were cold. “Not you though. You saved me, Doctor Patroclus.”

“You would have been fine without me, I think,” said Patroclus, expression wry. How could this man call himself the best of the Greeks with a straight face? “This isn’t that bad.”

Achilles hummed in the back of his throat. The rumble reminded Patroclus of honey bees, busy in their hive, thick with pollen. He wished once again for a shirt. “I’m glad of you, regardless,” Achilles said.

Patroclus looked up sharply, but saw no mocking on Achilles’ face. “You are not as I imagined you to be, Achilles Pelides,” he said slowly.

Achilles narrowed his eyes. “And what did you imagine, Patroclus?”

He could not lie. Patroclus knew that already. “I imagined I would fear you.”

Frustration and, strangely enough, hurt mixed together on Achilles’ face. “Why would you need to fear me?”

Patroclus blinked. He felt totally lost in this conversation. “Well, some of the stories people tell about…things you’ve…done…your exploits, in the war. They’re meant to inspire fear, I’m sure. Are they not true?” He said the last part with little hope. He’d been a medic during the Trojan War; he’d seen the results of Achilles’ exploits – some might call them war crimes – up close and personal, if not the man himself.

Or, to be accurate, the _boy_ himself. Achilles had only been sixteen when the war started. Most people forgot about that.

“No,” Achilles said. “But why would you be scared? You are Greek, are you not?”

“I am.”

“And I was fighting for Greece. Which means I was fighting for you, in a manner of speaking. What I did, I did for you, and for all the Greeks.” Achilles spoke as if to a child, like he was stating the obvious. “I did what I had to do. That’s why the people love me, why they remember me and tell stories about me. I’m a hero.”

Patroclus fought to keep his mouth shut. As far as he knew, even the Greeks were terrified of Achilles. The general consensus was that he was a wild animal trained to fight; sleek, beautiful, and useful in the right hands, but too dangerous and unpredictable to be let off the leash.

The distant whir of approaching helicopters saved him from further conversation. Achilles peered into the blue autumn sky and squeezed Patroclus’ hands. “Where do you live,” he asked. “When you’re not saving the lives of rural Anatolians?”

“Troy.”

“Good,” said Achilles. He let go of Patroclus’ hands and flung an arm across his face, completely hiding his eyes. “You’re flying back with me.”

 

* * *

 

That afternoon saw Patroclus back in Troy. His protestations and objections amounted to exactly nothing; Achilles had made up his mind – for what reason, Patroclus did not dare to guess – to take Patroclus back to Troy, so that’s what happened.

As soon as the helicopter touched down on the roof of the Paean Medical Center and Achilles was carted off to see a doctor who was actually finished with their residency, Patroclus was dialing Briseis.

She answered immediately. “Where are you? Are you alright?” Worry colored her words, which in turn made guilt start to churn in Patroclus’ stomach. Not that this was his fault, but still.

“I’m in Troy,” he answered quickly. “And I’m fine.”

There was a beat of silence. “I’m confused,” Briseis said flatly.

“Yeah, me too,” Patroclus muttered. “Look, something happened in the woods this morning. I ran into this guy who’d been hurt pretty bad, so I patched him up and called for help. I flew back to Troy with the medevac flight.”

Patroclus could tell that Briseis knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth. Dissembling wasn’t his strong suit, and Briseis knew him better than anyone. Fortunately, one of the innumerable amazing things about Briseis was that she trusted him. Patroclus would have loved her for that alone; trust was more than anyone in his birth family had ever given him.

“Alright,” she said, and Patroclus felt a warm flood of affection for her. “As long as you’re alright. Call me if you need _anything_ , got it?”

“Yeah.” One of Achilles’ new security guards caught his attention and made a wrap-it-up motion with his hands. Patroclus sighed. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll be back on soon,” Briseis promised. “Be careful.”

They said their goodbyes, and Patroclus turned to glare at the guard. “What is it?” he snapped.

“I’m to take you to your debriefing, sir,” the man said. His voice was emotionless, almost robotic. The attitude fit well with the man’s uniform, which was the same unremarkable black suit used by political security forces the world over.  

Patroclus scowled. “You couldn’t wait two more minutes?”

The man stared at him blankly.

“Can I at least get a shirt?” Patroclus persisted. “Or wash the Prince’s blood off?”

More blankness. More nothing. Patroclus gave up and followed the man inside.

 

* * *

 

Patroclus didn’t see Achilles again until the next day. The summons came at mid-morning, hours after Patroclus had already risen and eaten breakfast in the over-sized, over-air conditioned hospital cafeteria. A forgettable government functionary fetched him while he cooled his heels next to a stack of magazines in an empty waiting room on the fourth floor.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said brightly when Patroclus came into his doorway. “You came.”

An unwanted, uncomfortable lump formed in Patroclus’ throat, preventing an immediate response. Achilles looked…well, he looked like he’d looked yesterday, only he didn’t. Now that it wasn’t covered in dirt and blood, his skin glowed soft gold against the crisp white sheets of his bed. The contrast recalled the sight of honey drizzled over cream. His lips, no longer pale with blood loss and cold, were the rich red of pomegranates. His feet, which peeked from under the edge of his blanket, were delicately arched and pink. And his hair…washed and brushed, Achilles’ sun-bleached hair flowed over his broad shoulders and fanned across his chest. Two braids framed each side of his face.      

Shame flushed Patroclus’ cheeks red. These thoughts were entirely inappropriate. Beauty was part of Achilles image, part of his brand. It had nothing to do with the person underneath. All manner of things could wrap themselves in beautiful packages.

Achilles smiled sweetly. “Patroclus?” Oh, did he sound smug. He wiggled his toes, making Patroclus blush harder. “Nothing to say?”

In a bid to gain some level of composure, Patroclus ignored Achilles and examined the room. As a prince of Greece and Anatolia, Achilles had been granted a private recovery suite with a long, rectangular window that took up most of the east wall. A plush green couch sat below the window, with a mahogany end table stationed on either side. Vivid oil paintings of cascading larkspur, crocus, and lilies adorned the oatmeal colored walls, as did a flat screen television mounted on an adjustable arm. It hardly looked medical.

“Nice room,” Patroclus observed absently. He’d spent the night on a couch in one of the doctors’ lounges. The silent guard from the roof – who Patroclus had quickly come to understand was there to guard him personally – had physically blocked the exit when he’d tried to leave the hospital after his debriefing.

He focused on Achilles again, walking to the end of Achilles’ bed. “Why am I still here?” Surely, Achilles would have no use for him. He was royalty.

A playful light entered Achilles’ eyes. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?”

Patroclus closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and opened them again. This was not a man he could afford to anger. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Achilles shoved his blankets down and pulled up his hospital gown. A white dressing stretched across stomach. The middle of the dressing was marred by the dark brown patina of dried blood. “Just a lot of stitches. Makes me wish I was actually invulnerable. I’ll be stuck standing still for weeks.”

“That’s-” The sarcastic response Patroclus was going to deliver died on his tongue. Whatever else Achilles was, he was also Patroclus’ patient. Former patient? In any event, he couldn’t help but be happy that Achilles was going to make a full recovery. No one deserved to be in pain. “That’s wonderful. Really,” he finished sincerely.

Achilles rewarded him with a small smile. “Thank you. As for while you’re still here…we’re waiting on someone. Once she gets here, I’ll tell you. I think you’ll be pleased.”

“Who are we waiting for?”

“My mother.”

The color drained from Patroclus’ face. Prince Achilles was one thing; Queen Thetis was another thing entirely. If Achilles was a wild animal on a leash, she was the one with her hand on the lead.   

“Speak of the devil.”

Patroclus eyes snapped to the door.

Severe. That was the only word he could think of to describe Queen Thetis. Tall and willowy-thin, the sharp lines of her suit made her seem even taller. Her skin was translucently pale, contrasting starkly with the dark mass of her hair. Black, unforgiving eyes burned from under heavy brows.

There was nothing of her in Achilles, except for their shared grace. It was well-known that Achilles took after his father, Peleus, who’d remained in Greece when Thetis had gone to rule a newly conquered Anatolia.

“My son,” she said formally, nodding at Achilles and barely looking at Patroclus. She moved to Achilles’ beside and took his head in her hands. A few seconds passed while she searched his face. She leaned down to press a lingering kiss on Achilles’ lips.

When the kiss ended, she didn’t move back. She stroked her fingers through Achilles’ hair instead, like a master pets their dog.

Patroclus fought to keep his disquiet from his face. This was none of his business.

“Mother,” Achilles said quietly. Thetis stepped back. “I want to introduce you to someone.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “This is Patroclus Menoitiades. He helped me in the woods yesterday.”

With Achilles’ introduction, the full intensity of Thetis’ gaze fell upon Patroclus. He immediately felt as if every bad thought he’d ever had was writ large across his forehead. “Your Majesty,” he stuttered, bowing his head.

Her already thin lips thinned further. “You did my son a great service. We are in your debt.”

That was, apparently, the opening Achilles had been waiting for. He jumped back into the conversation eagerly. “That’s why I wished you to come, mother. I know how to repay Patroclus, but I would like your blessing.”

He paused. She waved her hand imperiously, giving him leave to continue.

“I want him as _therapon_.” _Therapon_. Advisor, companion. Trusted friend.

The silence that descended was not just palpable, it was downright hostile. If Thetis could kill with a look, Patroclus was absolutely certain he’d have been lying on the ground with blood leaking out his ears. As it was, Patroclus surprised himself by breaking the silence first.

“But you don’t even know me!”

“I beg to differ,” Achilles replied calmly. He picked up a thick, beige file folder from the table next to him and started reading the first page. “Patroclus Menoitiades. Age: 27. Father, Menoitius, a higher up at the Greek National Bank. Mother, Periopis, a homemaker until she died of cancer at age 31. Enlisted in the army medical corps at the age of 18, served an active tour during the Trojan War. Went to medical school. Started a residency at Trojan General last year. Saved the life of Prince Achilles Pelides after an assassination attempt in the woods near Belen, Anatolia.” He flipped the file closed. “Did I miss anything?”

“Those are facts,” Patroclus protested. “People are more than the sum of words on a page.”

Achilles studied him intently. Patroclus had no idea what he expected to find. “Yes,” he finally said. “I know.”

Thetis sat on the edge of Achilles’ bed and took his hands in hers’. The gesture was not a tender one, however; Achilles flinched as her nails dug crescents into his skin. “Achilles. I have been urging you to take _therapon_ for years. Why this boy?” Agitation buzzed in her voice, each word another angry wasp in the swarm.

Achilles looked down to where his mother’s hands were clutched around his own. “Because he is different,” he said.

Patroclus’ knees felt weak. That was not an answer.

“And if he does not wish to be your _therapon_?” Thetis questioned. They were speaking of him as if he weren’t in the room. “He does not approve of you or the actions you take on behalf of your country. He does not understand sacrifice, not like we do.” She loosened her grip on his hands before bringing one hand up to twist into his braid. “You are a legend, my son. My pretty, heroic son. Do not jeopardize that.”

“I jeopardize nothing,” said Achilles. He looked past his mother’s shoulder, straight at Patroclus. “Do you wish it?”

No. Patroclus did not wish it. He had no desire to tie himself to such merciless, joyful violence. No desire to subject himself to those ceaseless riptides. One wrong move and he could get sucked under, buried in the cold, dark depths of an indifferent ocean.

If only Achilles’ eyes, as they gazed steadily at Patroclus, didn’t hold such terrible, heavy loneliness. If only Patroclus hadn’t glimpsed the child beneath the warrior, hadn’t seen the strange, distant intimacy between Achilles and his mother.

But he had seen, and his heart hurt for Achilles. Patroclus knew all about loneliness.

That’s why he believed everyone deserved a friend.

“Yes,” Patroclus said. “I wish it.”

And just like that, Achilles conquered Patroclus with even greater ease than he’d conquered Troy.

Thetis seemed to realize the same. Patroclus shivered at the murderous fury that flickered in her cold eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to wrap my head around moving this myth into a modern setting for months now. My big problem was Achilles. I just couldn't figure out how to make him work in a world like ours. He kills indiscriminately, efficiently, and without remorse. And for what? Glory. Immortality. There are other parts to him, his love for Patroclus being one of them, but still - mythical Achilles is a psychopath. What would a person like that do in the modern world? Why would a modern Patroclus give a person like that the time of day?


	2. leave him

Achilles was eventually released from the hospital, and the first order of business was getting him moved into his rooms in the Palace.

The Royal Palace was a sprawling stone building in the center of Troy. Though it had been as thoroughly destroyed as the rest of the city during the war, Queen Thetis had made it a priority to restore the Palace to its former glory as quickly as possible. The thought made Patroclus vaguely ill. Now that he’d met Thetis, he suspected she’d ordered the rushed restoration so she’d be able to walk over the ashes of the former King Priam and his family on a daily basis.

Patroclus, of course, was on hand to help. Truthfully, ever since he’d agreed to be Achilles’ _therapon_ , he’d hardly been out of the man’s presence. With the exception of Briseis, Patroclus had never spent this much time in anyone’s company. Ever.

He wished it bothered him more than it did.

Achilles sighed as he lowered himself onto the squishy couch in his sitting room. “It’s good to be home,” he said. Patroclus looked around Achilles’ rooms and agreed silently. Achilles’ rooms, from his sitting room to his bedroom to his personal kitchen, were spacious and filled with oversized, ultra-comfortable furniture. He also seemed to have a thing for the color green. It was everywhere.

“Yeah, this is nice,” commented Patroclus.

Achilles smiled. “I’m glad you think so. Yours are just like mine.”

Patroclus quit his inspection of Achilles’ rooms and spun to face him. Today, Achilles was wearing a pair of form-fitting black leggings. A deep purple tunic, one loose enough that it wouldn’t rub against the healing skin on his stomach, reached half-way down his thighs. As usual, his feet were bare. Patroclus ignored those things.

“What?”

Achilles rolled his eyes. “Your rooms. They’re right next door. You can go see them if you want. Come back when you’re done though. It’s boring without you.”

“I already have a place to live.”

“And now you have a better one.” Achilles sat up straighter. “If it’s your stuff you’re worried about, it’s already been moved.”

Patroclus’ eyebrows shut up. “You had your lackeys break into my apartment?"

Confused wrinkles appeared on Achilles’ forehead. “We are _therapon_. Where did you think you were going to live?”

Patroclus opened his mouth and promptly shut it. What had he been thinking? _Therapon_ was not a role to be taken lightly. His and Achilles lives were intertwined now; of course he wouldn’t be allowed to go on living across the city. His place was at Achilles’ side.

No, living with Achilles was not the upsetting part. Achilles’ imperiousness was.

“Okay, fine,” Patroclus relented. “I get that I have to move.” Smug satisfaction bloomed on Achilles’ face. The anger in Patroclus’ stomach flared again. He pointed his finger – aggressively – straight at Achilles’ noble nose. “But. You should have _asked_ me first. You can’t make major decisions about my life without my consent. And you definitely shouldn’t have broken into my apartment. That’s not right. I won’t tolerate it.”

Achilles’ face fell. It made Patroclus feel like a parent lecturing a wayward child. An incredibly deadly wayward child.

“You’re upset,” Achilles ventured hesitantly.

“Yes. I’m upset.” Patroclus sat on the couch next to Achilles, his anger waning in the face of Achilles’ ignorance. “It’s a violation, Achilles. It makes me feel like what I want doesn’t matter.”

“Oh,” said Achilles softly. “I didn’t think of it like that.”

Patroclus could feel his own face twist, first in disbelief and then in sadness. One thing Patroclus had learned about Achilles in the past few weeks was that Achilles did not lie. Ironically, he considered lying dishonorable. Therefore, if Achilles said that he hadn’t considered how forcibly moving another person’s things would affect that person’s life, he meant it.

Not for the first time, Patroclus had to wonder who Achilles actually was and _why_ Achilles was.

“I need you to start,” said Patroclus gently. “If we’re to be friends, I need you to care about what I think.”

“Okay. I'll do better,” Achilles said. He pulled his hair, which today was in a single, complicated braid down his back, over his shoulder and fiddled with the end. “I already care what you think, by the way.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

They sat together on the couch for a few minutes, staring at the blank television screen. Their reflections stared back. On one side was Achilles, beautiful and terrible. On the other side was Patroclus. He knew his muddy brown eyes were too big. When he was young, the other children had called him _the owl_ because of their size; it had not been a compliment. He kept his dark hair cropped short; his tight curls looked ridiculous if he let them get any longer. He had a wide mouth. Plump brown cheeks. All of it together meant he looked rather goofy.

Patroclus had made his peace with his body long ago. He was comfortable with himself. Briseis thought he was handsome. That was enough.

Achilles caught his eye in their reflections and smiled.

A knock at the door ended the moment.

The smile dropped of Achilles’ face. “Come in,” he called, twisting around.

A young woman walked in. She looked a bit like Briseis in miniature: dark hair, dark eyes, olive complexion. Her beauty, unquestionable as it was, struck Patroclus as the kind that often came with money. Smooth skin, shiny hair, and impeccable style were all easier to buy than inherit. 

She wore a huge diamond on her left hand.

“Achilles, darling,” she said. She took a few steps into the room and stopped. “So glad to see you well.”

“I thought you were in Phthia,” Achilles answered flatly, naming his family’s capital in Greece. “You’re supposed to warn me before you come here.”

The woman laughed. The sound was like bells ringing in the dusk. Achilles winced. “You’re mother called me, dear. The day after your trouble in the woods. She said you were hurt. She said you needed me. I came as soon as I was able.” The woman paused and looked pointedly at Patroclus. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Patroclus, this is Deidameia,” Achilles monotoned.

Deidameia. The name was familiar. Patroclus had definitely heard it before.

“Oh, don’t be like that Achilles,” Deidameia scolded. She glanced back to Patroclus, tossing her gorgeous hair from side to side. “I’m Deidameia. Achilles’ wife.”

Right. He’d completely forgotten Achilles’ had a wife. Achilles hadn’t mentioned her once, and he certainly didn’t wear a ring.

“Oh, uh, right,” Patroclus stammered, lurching to his feet. Good manners dictated that he bow to the lady – the _princess_ – so that’s what he did. “I’m Patroclus. Nice to meet you.” He felt a right fool, though he wasn’t sure why. Achilles was royalty as well, and Patroclus never felt awkward around him.

Deidameia just smiled a charming smile. “Yes, the _therapon_. Thetis mentioned you. You must be quite the man, to make such an impression on our Achilles. He doesn’t like anyone.”

Her words were accompanied by a slow up and down scan of Patroclus’ body, followed by a single raised eyebrow that spoke louder than all of her words combined. Patroclus blanched and looked to Achilles for help. This was completely out of his depth. Achilles pulled him back onto the couch with a scowl.

Deidameia laughed again, only this time with a hint of bitterness. Was no one happy in this place?

“You’ve done your wifely duty,” Achilles snarled. “You can go now.”

Deidameia bit her bottom lip. The action made her seem vulnerable, but only for a second. Then her entire body, from her face to her feet, hardened.

She kept her eyes on Achilles but addressed Patroclus again. “I know what you’re thinking, Patroclus,” she said. “Why do I put up with him?” She walked as she spoke, backing toward the door. “As brutish as he acts, he is quite pretty, is he not? You should see him in a dress. He likes to wear them sometimes.”

Patroclus’ cheeks heated. He carefully did not look in Achilles’ direction.

“I know. The Butcher of Troy,” she taunted. Patroclus could feel Achilles’ stiffen from two feet away.

“I quite enjoy it, though,” Deidameia continued. Her hand was on the doorknob. “Our daughters will be the prettiest girls who ever lived. Our sons will be the strongest.” She looked back as she walked out. “That’ll make this worth it. Don’t you think? See you tonight, husband.” The door shut behind her.

“I don’t love her,” Achilles whispered in her wake, as if it were not obvious.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Patroclus woke up before the sun. Sleeping in a new environment was always difficult for him, although he had improved since he started working with Briseis. He moaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Time for a shower.

After brushing his teeth – with his own toothbrush, no less; whomever Achilles had sent to clear out his apartment had been disconcertingly thorough – he shuffled into the first clothes that came to hand and decided to venture out in search of food. Last night, even after the Deidameia incident, he’d had the presence of mind to ask one of the Palace employees where the kitchens were.

Patroclus eased his door open and shut it quietly behind him. Living in royal family’s personal section of the Palace was like living in a cross between a hotel and the nicest home he’d ever been to. He wasn’t sure how to act, so he decided to stay as unobtrusive as possible.

He urned toward the main staircase, but froze as he caught sight of the rest of the hall. At the end of the hall, coming out of a door that was not his, was Achilles. He had on a pair of cotton pajama pants, but nothing else. His hair was tangled and knotted, and the scar the knife left behind was vivid across his pale stomach.

Achilles eased the door shut, just as Patroclus had. And he turned. And he froze.

They stared at one another, two deer caught in mutual headlights.

Patroclus unfroze first and made the walk to Achilles, who still hadn’t moved. He could hear Deidameia’s voice through the door. When he looked from the door back to Achilles, Achilles looked like he was going to be sick. He also looked guilty, which was absurd.

“I can explain.” started Achilles.

Patroclus cut him off. “No need.” He looked back at the door. “She’s your wife. It’s none of my business.”

Though Patroclus had meant his words to be reassuring, they only served to make Achilles look worse. Patroclus decided to change tactics. “Hey,” he said, trying for cheerful. “How about we do something today?”

“What?”

“Let’s get out of here. Go to the beach or something,” Patroclus said. “The sun is shining and you need fresh air. We could get in some _therapon_ bonding. What do you think?”

The roil of emotions in Achilles’ eyes began to smooth into hope. “Just the two of us?”

“Of course.”

A genuine smile displaced the last of the darkness on Achilles’ face. “Then let’s go to the beach.”

 

* * *

 

The beach they chose was a secluded one, far from the beaches they’d landed on during the run-up to the Trojan War. Patroclus had insisted on that. Achilles had tried to insist that all of his guards stay behind, but he was overruled by Thetis. The assassination attempt was too fresh. Achilles finally relented on the condition that the guards were to remain out of sight on the perimeter of the beach only.

The small, horseshoe shaped beach was itself spectacular. Cool, white sand shifted under Patroclus’ feet as he and Achilles explored rocky tidal pools near the south end of the beach. When they tired of that, they raced each other to the place where the sand faded into vibrant turquoise water. They rolled up their pants and waded in, kicking foam and spray at each other as they went.

Once they’d waded far enough, Achilles laid his hand on Patroclus’ wrist, stilling him. He held one long finger up to his smiling lips, requesting silence. Together, they stood still and waited. Eventually, the fish they’d scared away with their splashing began to return. The water was so clear that Patroclus could see the little fish as they swam around his toes.

Delighted, Patroclus snapped his head from his feet to Achilles’ face. He knew he was grinning like a loon, and he knew that his eyes were bigger than ever, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. This was too amazing. 

Besides, Achilles had a stupid grin on his face too. Patroclus raised his arms to the sky and the late autumn sun fell on his face. He felt like a kid again.

Hunger pulled them back to the sand around midday. They broke into their packs and set out the modest mountain of food the Palace chefs had sent with them: bread, sheep’s cheese, cucumber slices, tomatoes, peppers, almonds, plums, and figs. He and Achilles ate through all of it and spent the early part of the afternoon pelting each other with fig pits.

When Patroclus’ energy began to flag – he may have felt like a kid again, but his body was still undeniably adult – Achilles followed him to rest beside a sloped piece of driftwood. Patroclus leaned his back against the smooth, water-sanded wood while Achilles lay in the sand, his arms behind his head and his pink feet in Patroclus’ lap.

There was no one else on the beach. The ghosts of the past could not haunt them here; the specter of the future could not reach its clammy hands into their chests. It was just them, at just this moment, in this place. Patroclus rubbed his fingers over Achilles’ feet absentmindedly and let his gaze wander over the Aegean.

Patroclus was so lost in himself that it took him a while to realize that Achilles was singing softly under his breath. The tune was one he’d never heard before, the lyrics unfamiliar.

He squeezed Achilles’ foot gently. “What’s that song?”

Achilles opened his eyes part way and looked at Patroclus through his lashes. “It’s nothing. I hear it in my head sometimes.”

“You made it up?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nice.”

They lapsed into silence again. Patroclus thought the conversation was over, but it wasn’t long before Achilles spoke again. “I like music,” Achilles said. “I can play, you know. Piano, guitar, even the harp. When I was a kid, I’d play for hours. And I’d sing.” He took his hands from behind his head, shook the sand off, and pressed them into his eyes. “Not so much anymore.”

“Why not?” asked Patroclus.

“Messing around with music doesn’t get you into the history books,” answered Achilles.

Patroclus sat forward. He wished Achilles would stop hiding and look at him, but no such luck. “Who told you that?” he asked.

No answer.

“Achilles,” Patroclus tried again, more insistent this time. “Who told you that?”

A wave broke, water crashing into water. There was no other answer.

 

* * *

 

Briseis was beside herself when Patroclus told her.

They were having dinner at her place, a house share in one of the residential parts of Troy. Normally if Patroclus wasn’t working he dined with Achilles, but today Achilles was eating with Thetis. They had these mother-son dinners every other week or so, and Patroclus was never invited. Achilles was always terrible afterwards, restless and moody.

Tonight, though, Achilles’ dinner plans were fortuitous, because Briseis was back in town. If only she weren’t so angry.

“You what?” Briseis said forcefully. Though phrased as such, it was not a question.

“I agreed to be his _therapon_ ,” Patroclus said lightly, like it was no big deal. “It’s not widely known yet. The Queen didn’t want a big announcement.”

They were in Briseis’ outdated kitchen, eating pasta off chipped china. Briseis was no longer eating, however. She slammed her fork down on the table, rattling their glasses of wine. Thankfully, her roommates were out. “Are you out of your ever-loving mind?”

“He’s not what everyone thinks,” said Patroclus. He set his fork down too. “There’s more to him than what people say. He has no one, Briseis.”

Briseis shook her head at him. “There is a difference between being soft-hearted and being stupid. You have, in no uncertain terms, crossed that line.” Her voice shook. She wasn’t just angry, she was frightened. For him.

“That’s not fair-”

“Not fair!” Briseis interrupted, louder now. “We aren’t talking some guy off the street here, Patroclus! This is Achilles Pelides.” She took a breath. “Do remember when the Greeks took Canakkale? Because I do. I was there. Pelides wanted to gain the city without destroying it, so what did he do? He gathered a few hundred prisoners, families from other Anatolian towns he’d conquered, and every ten minutes he marched another prisoner in front of the city gates and shot them in the head. Every _ten minutes_ , Patroclus. He murdered seventeen people in cold blood before we surrendered.”

Tears formed Patroclus’ eyes, but not in Briseis’. She was Anatolian; they were a tougher people.

“That’s who your _therapon_ is, Patroclus,” she stared directly into his eyes, like he could see her thoughts by osmosis. Her voice was low, deadly. “That’s who you eat with and live with and laugh with. Don't blind yourself to it.”

“I'm not blind,” he said softly. 

“Then leave him,” Briseis pleaded. She leaned forward to grasp his hands over the little wooden table. “Go abroad. I’ll help you. I’ll go with you, if that’s what it takes.”

Feeling like a coward, Patroclus broke eye contact. “I…”

“Please,” she whispered. “He’s not your friend. He’s a monster. And one day, if you stay with him, he’ll turn you into a monster too. Leave him. Before it’s too late.”

What Briseis was saying was the truth, but it wasn’t the whole truth. The problem was, Patroclus wasn’t sure if that made a difference. Was he doing a good thing by being Achilles’ friend, or was he already compromising his morals? Was love unconditional, or wasn’t it? Did it matter?

In lieu of answers, Patroclus would have to go with his gut.

“I can’t,” he said.

 _I won’t_ , he thought.

Briseis dropped his hands, grabbed her plate, and threw it in the trash. Patroclus said nothing. She had every reason.  

 

* * *

 

Achilles was sitting on Patroclus’ couch juggling figs when Patroclus got back from his disastrous dinner with Briseis. With the exception of the light from the open window, the room was almost completely dark. Patroclus switched on the light.

“How is your friend?” Achilles asked politely. The figs were a dark blur in his nimble hands.

“Fine.”

Achilles threw him a fig, the fruit following a graceful arc into his hand. Once again, Patroclus was struck by how delicate Achilles’ looked. Especially now. His hair was held back by a thin headband, and he was wearing a black sweater that was so stretched out it bared his collar bones.

He was such a mystery.  

Patroclus bit into the fig. It was a little past ripe; it tasted like pure sugar. “How is your mother?” he asked.

“Fine.”

Patroclus took off his coat. Achilles watched him, his green eyes steady. He held six figs, three in each hand. Patroclus finished his fig and put the pit in the trash.

“Deidameia went back to Phthia,” Achilles said suddenly.  

Patroclus twitched in surprise. He rarely saw Deidameia, but he knew Achilles sometimes went to her at night. He never went during the day, and he never wore a ring. “Oh. Well. That’s…”

“Would you sleep in my room tonight?”

Patroclus twitched again. Briseis’ voice pierced his mind: _He’s a monster…Leave him._

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Achilles went on. “But I want you to. If you want to.” He stood up, letting the figs fall onto the couch. “Please.”

“Alright,” Patroclus said.

Achilles offered him a small smile. “Good. I didn’t want to assume anything, but I already had a cot brought in for you.”

Patroclus scoffed, but didn’t protest. He gathered his things and followed Achilles’ into the hall.


	3. myth making

Months passed in a blur. That winter turned into an unexpectedly wet one; rain dripped constantly from steel gray clouds onto the stone streets of Troy. Patroclus continued with his residency, which didn’t leave him much free time. But the free time he did have, he spent with Achilles. They ate together, read together, and, when Patroclus had time to sleep, they slept in Achilles’ room together.

The trade off was that Patroclus saw Briseis less. He still saw her, of course; no matter how angry she was with him, they loved each other too much to end their friendship. Each time they met, Patroclus would assure her that he was happy and safe, and she renewed her offer to help him leave. Patroclus appreciated her worry, but wasn’t swayed. He would not leave Achilles.  

One day in late winter, Achilles took him to visit the man who had been responsible for the majority of Achilles’ training: Chiron. By the way Achilles’ spoke of him, Patroclus imagined the man to be some kind of mythical creature, an impossibly perfect mixture of mentor, warrior, and father.

As it turned out, that description wasn’t far off the mark. Chiron lived in a little cabin situated three-quarters the way up the Koroglu Tepesi, the highest peak in the mountain range that straddled the North Anatolian Fault. At this time of year, pure snow blanketed the dense forests of fir and pine that butted right up to the mountain’s tree line. The unspoiled atmosphere of the place reminded Patroclus of the clearing where he’d met Achilles.

He wondered if anyone else had found the train car.

Chiron himself looked younger than Patroclus expected. He was a giant of a man, and the rough, baggy clothes he wrapped himself in made him look even larger. The hair on his head was buzzed short, and he had a neatly trimmed beard of black shot through with white.

“Achilles,” Chiron said as they approached his cabin. Genuine warmth suffused his voice, earning him Patroclus’ good will immediately. Almost no one spoke to Achilles like that.

“Chiron,” returned Achilles. He embraced Chiron briefly, hugging him tightly around the chest. Then he stepped back and waved his hand at Patroclus. “My _therapon_ of some three months now, Patroclus Menoitiades.”

Chiron regarded Patroclus soberly. The attention was compelling.

“It’s nice to meet you, Chiron,” Patroclus said. He bowed his head respectfully. “Achilles speaks of you often.”

Chiron bowed his head in return. “Greetings, Patroclus.” He swung his head to Achilles. “Your mother?” he rumbled.

Achilles shook his head sharply, his eyes darting to Patroclus. “Mine,” he said.

Although no muscles moved, Patroclus would have sworn something changed on Chiron’s face. One moment, his features were blank; the next, he seemed…proud. “Then you must both come inside. I have food and drink prepared for you, and it is much warmer.”

They followed Chiron into his one-room cabin. An old-fashioned, cast iron wood stove took up one corner of the room, a hand-carved double bed another. Blankets and drying clothes hung from the exposed eaves. Bags of wheat and rice were stacked next to cans of vegetables on a pallet by the door. Over the pallet was a shot gun on a rack. In the middle of the room there were three overturned crates that were clearly meant to act as chairs. Another crate with a board over the top served as the table. It was full of steaming food.

As they ate, Chiron told stories of Achilles as a child. Patroclus was fascinated.

“Achilles was an imaginative child, you see,” Chiron said around a mouth full of bread. He raised a conspiratorial eyebrow to Patroclus. “He believed in all manner of gods and stories and magical beasts.”

“Did Achilles live with you?” asked Patroclus, laughing.

Achilles was laughing too. “I did. From six to sixteen.”

Patroclus choked on the end of his laugh. Achilles’ parents had decided he was ready for full time military training when he was six years old? Neither Chiron nor Achilles seemed particularly troubled by that fact.

“And do you remember what happened in your second week?” Chiron said to Achilles. “You came running into my room, quick as a bullet from a gun, screaming your head off about how the world was ending.” He turned to Patroclus. “We were under a military flight path, you see. Every morning at the same time, one of those damned noisy fighter jets would practically touch down on my roof. This one here-” Chiron jerked his thumb at Achilles “-didn’t know what the sound was. Actually thought it was the world turning over for the new day. Then one day the fly by didn’t happen. Achilles came to me, crying, thinking that meant the sun wasn’t going to rise.”  

“But it did,” said Achilles, raising his cup toward the sky.

“That it did,” agreed Chiron. He knocked his cup against Achilles’ and drank deep.

Patroclus let them have their moment. It seemed private. He waited until they were done to speak. “So Achilles has a mind for myth-making,” he ventured.

Once again, Chiron’s face changed without moving. There was no pride this time. Just sadness.

“When he was a child, yes,” said Chiron. “Not anymore.”

“Not in a long time,” Achilles said with conviction. “Useless. Myths aren’t real. I’m real.”

Patroclus said nothing. He wasn’t so sure.

 

* * *

 

After the meal, Chiron excused himself to check his animal traps. Achilles sprawled on the bed, a guitar having materialized in his hands. Patroclus sat on the floor, his back to the bed, his head stretched backwards onto the covers.

Every note Achilles plucked shimmered in the air, little bits of pounded gold. Patroclus watched, warm and sleepy, as the golden notes floated up to the rafters. They hung there together, suffusing the room with a beautiful melody.

Time blended into itself, melting. And then the music stopped.

Patroclus craned his head back, a question in his eyes.

“Sorry,” said Achilles. He held up his red, indented fingers for Patroclus to see. “I don’t play enough. It hurts.”

“Huh.” Patroclus turned around so his front faced the bed instead of his back. He tucked his feet underneath him. “You should. Play more.”

“I don’t have time,” said Achilles. He was wearing green today. The color made his eyes even more brilliant than usual.

Patroclus grabbed Achilles’ hand and began to rub the dents out of his fingertips. Achilles grunted with pleasure and relaxed into the bed. “What do you want, Achilles?”

“What?”

“What do you want? Out of life?” Patroclus pressed both his thumbs into Achilles’ palm and pushed hard. He worked the muscles, trying to get them to loosen. “Who do you want to be in ten years, or twenty?”

“I don’t think about it like that,” Achilles said drowsily. “It’s not a matter of ten or twenty years. It’s a hundred years. Two hundred. A thousand. What I want is to live forever.”

Patroclus paused. “That sounds unrealistic.”

Achilles shifted onto his side. “Sure, physically. But not in the hearts and minds of the people. If I accomplish enough in life, if I do enough for Greece, I’ll be immortal. They’ll remember me forever. That’s what I want.”

“What you want, or what Thetis wants.”

Annoyance darkened Achilles’ face. “Is there a difference?”

“Of course there’s a difference.” Patroclus couldn’t keep the incredulousness out of his voice. He dropped Achilles’ hand. Achilles’ face darkened further.

This was going all wrong.

Jaw clenched, Achilles wrenched himself from the bed and paced to the other side of the room. “You have no idea what’s it like.” The words burst from him like shrapnel, piercing Patroclus wherever they landed.

Achilles crouched in front of Patroclus, their noses barely a hand span apart, his hair long, soft hair falling on either side of them like a curtain.

“I was groomed from infancy to make hard choices. To sacrifice a little to save a lot,” Achilles said softly. Intensely. He needed to be heard, so Patroclus listened. “I’m not stupid. I know what some people say about me. But whatever they say, I know they’re grateful for what I do. They’re grateful they aren’t the ones who have to do it. And rest assured, Patroclus, as wonderfully kind-hearted as you are-” Achilles slammed his open palm on Patroclus’ chest, right about his heart. Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to force out a grunt “-you need to realize that the things I did during the war were _necessary_. One day they will love me for it.”

Patroclus wrapped his hands around Achilles’ wrist and took a moment to appreciate the situation. Here he was, alone in the middle of nowhere with Achilles Pelides, who was currently bent over him and looking ready to do murder. Anyone else would have been scared.  

“You want to be someone who does the right thing, even if what’s right isn’t what’s easy,” he said softly. “You say you know how to make hard choices. But do you know the difference between the hard choice and the easy one?”

He wanted to add more. To ask if it still counts as sacrifice if it’s other peoples’ lives you’re sacrificing. But that wouldn’t be fair. Achilles had sacrificed more of himself than anyone Patroclus had ever met.

“Do you?” Achilles hissed. His eyes shone wetly. He threw himself backwards, yanked his jacket from its hook on the wall, and slammed out of the room.

Patroclus wished he’d never said anything.

 

* * *

 

Chiron returned before Achilles did.

Snow drifted from his clothes onto the floor as he peeled off his layers and hung them by the stove. “I saw Achilles thumping through the woods, scaring off all my game,” he said. “In a right sulk, he is.”

“We had a fight,” said Patroclus bleakly. Guilt churned in his stomach.

Chiron made a noise in the back of this throat. He settled his muscled bulk on one of the crates and pointed to another. “Sit at the table with me, Patroclus.”

Patroclus, who hadn’t moved from his spot on the ground since Achilles left, pushed himself to his feet and sat across the makeshift table from Chiron.

“The Queen contacted me,” Chiron said. “Ordered me to counsel the Prince not to trust you. Apparently, he won’t take her advice on the matter.”

Patroclus accepted the news calmly. It was no surprise that Thetis didn’t like him. She’d made that obvious from day one.

Chiron observed Patroclus’ reaction with a steady eye. “Should I listen to her? Or should I do as Achilles has done and put my faith in you?”

Now that was a surprise. “You…” Patroclus rubbed his hands over his face. “You would defy the Queen?”

“I don’t care about the Queen. I care about Achilles.” Chiron leaned forward. “I see a change in him, a good one, and I think that’s down to you. But you don’t understand how dangerous change can be.”

“How do you mean?”

“Achilles is a weapon. He was carefully crafted to turn to destruction as a plant turns its leaves to the sun. The people who shaped him do not want him to know anything else,” Chiron explained. “You must be strong. There will be more fights. Achilles will test you. You must stand firm.” He gripped Patroclus’ chin with his powerful hand and peered into his eyes. “Thetis will test you too. You must be ready. Likely it won’t be enough, but it’s all you can do.”   

Patroclus nodded slowly. Fear made his heart beat faster.

Chiron released him. “You are a healer, Patroclus. Do your job.”

Earlier, when Achilles had been playing and Patroclus listening, the air in the cabin felt light. Light enough to float in. Now the atmosphere was heavy, oppressive. The weight of the future had harnessed itself to Patroclus, an albatross around his neck.

“What if I can’t save him?” asked Patroclus.

Chiron shook his head sadly. “Saving him was never an option. You can love him though. Maybe that will give him the courage he needs to save himself.”

 

* * *

 

Later that night, after they’d returned to Troy, Patroclus went in search of Achilles. Patroclus didn’t bother checking in Achilles’ rooms or the training grounds. He already knew where Achilles would be: the olive grove.

The olive grove was situated on the far side of the Palace gardens, to the east of the Palace itself. To get there, Patroclus had to weave between giant beds of dirt that would overflow with vegetables come spring: carrots and cabbage, beets, chicory, cucumber, eggplant and okra. He walked through a long line of hazelnut trees, and then he was in the olive grove.

Achilles was there, leaning against a tree in the middle of the grove. His face was impassive as he watched Patroclus pick his way closer. The ground was muddy from the near-constant winter rain; it sucked at Patroclus’ shoes and slowed him down. He was glad the gardens were well lit at night. Otherwise, this might have been impossible.

They regarded each other in silence. Their breath steamed from their mouths in an uneven white mist.

Achilles tried to speak first. Patroclus stopped him by raising his hand, palm out. He waited until he was sure Achilles wouldn’t talk before he spoke. He let his hand fall.

“I was a wreck after my mom died,” he said. “I was seven. She was my only friend.” He let his face crumple. He let Achilles see his pain. “I cried a lot. I didn’t want to see anyone, and I didn’t want to meet people. My father had no patience with me. He thought me weak. He didn’t understand why I couldn’t move on.” He tilted his head, considering. “I suppose it wasn’t hard for him. He married my mom for her money, and she married him to escape her parents. There was no love there.”

He waited for a moment, wondering if Achilles would say anything. He didn’t. He only listened and watched.

“As time went by, it got worse. The children of my father’s friends hated me. They didn’t understand, and I never explained. They were cruel. I never reacted to their taunts, until one day…” Patroclus trailed off. He hadn’t spoken of this in so long. He hadn’t even told Briseis. “One day I did. There was a boy a few years older than me. Clysonymus. He was saying things, terrible things, about my mother.”

Patroclus clenched his fists as remembered fury from that day revived itself. Emotions that powerful never really died. They simply waited, frozen, until some unexpected sight or smell or touch brought them to the surface once more, impossible to deny.

“I pushed him,” said Patroclus. “He was much bigger than me and stronger, but I managed to shove him to the ground. I lifted my fists right away, ready to fight. But he didn’t get up. He’d hit his head-” Patroclus tapped the base of his skull with his finger “-on a rock. He started convulsing. I didn’t know what to do. I was paralyzed.”

He looked toward the sky. Dark, cloudy patches were visible between the swaying branches of the tree. “I watched him die. I’d killed him. I was nine.”

The feel of Achilles’ hand on his brought him back to earth. Achilles threaded their fingers together, but said nothing. He knew Patroclus wasn’t finished.

“No one saw it happen,” Patroclus breathed. His voice was barely louder than the rustle of wind in the leaves. “My father covered it up. He has…friends…who take care of things like that. He made the body disappear. Then he made me disappear. He sent me to boarding school in Athens. Clysonymus’ parents never knew what happened to him.”

Patroclus didn’t realize he was crying until Achilles wiped a tear from his cheek. It seemed like such a stupid thing; who doesn’t realize they’re crying? But it happens to Patroclus sometimes. He’d made a habit of underestimating the strength of his emotions.

“I had terrible nightmares well into my teens. I still have them sometimes, though I’m better at hiding the results. My father never spoke to me again. When I was eighteen, I enlisted. I wanted him to notice me. He didn’t. When the war ended, I decided to stay here.” He looked into Achilles eyes. “Every time I think I’ve forgiven myself, I find that I’m wrong.”

Achilles enveloped Patroclus in his arms. Patroclus closed his eyes and let his head fall on Achilles’ shoulder.

“You were a child,” Achilles murmured into his ear. “It was an accident. You are beyond reproach in this.”

“The boy I killed was also a child,” Patroclus murmured back. Quiet despair had entered his voice. He was resigned to it by now. “I am responsible. Sometimes I think about going to his parents. Confessing. Taking the consequences, whatever they may be. It would be the right thing to do.”

“No, it would not,” Achilles swore. Quick as a flash, his hands were gone from Patroclus’ back and pressed to Patroclus’ cheeks. “It is _right_ that you help people now. It is _right_ that you are free. It is _right_ that you are with me.” He pulled Patroclus firmly into the crook of his neck. Patroclus didn’t resist. “I’m sorry I fought with you today. I hated it. Every second of it. I was so angry, but not with you. I don’t know how to be angry with you.”

Patroclus gripped hard at Achilles’ shirt. The soft fabric bunched under his hands.

“Don’t leave me,” said Achilles. “I can’t be who you want me to be, but…please. I’ll do what I can. Don’t leave. I couldn’t bear it.”

“If it’s within my power,” promised Patroclus. Like Chiron had said, if Thetis decided to remove him, he wouldn’t have any choice in the matter. But as long as the choice was his…“I won’t leave.”

“And don’t go to the parents,” said Achilles. “If you have nightmares, wake me up. I’ll help you. Just don’t punish yourself.

Patroclus tried to pull back, tried to see Achilles’ face. Achilles held him tight.

“Swear to me, Patroclus.”

Why did Achilles say his name like that? No one else did.

“Swear to me.”

“I swear it.”


	4. inevitable

Spring arrived in Troy like a switch being flipped. One moment, muted browns, grays and blues dominated the dreary landscape; the next, color exploded everywhere. Grass was green again, and trees seemed lighter for their leaves. Riotous flowers appeared overnight in the dirt between the Palace footpaths. The vegetables in the garden spread their tender shoots over warming soil.

Patroclus breathed deeply of the new scents as he walked to see Briseis. They were meeting for lunch in the park near Patroclus’ hospital, and he was looking forward to it.

Briseis waved when she saw him, her face brightening. “Lovely day,” she said in greeting. “How are you?”

That was always the first thing she asked him. In other circumstances, the question would be innocent, but with Briseis it was something more. It was her reminder of the offer she’d made the first time he’d told her about Achilles.

“I’m great, thanks,” he replied, kissing her cheek. “You?”

“Spectacular. I brought sandwiches.”

They found an unoccupied bench in a shady copse of trees – no small feat on a day as lovely as this – and settled in. Since Achilles was a sore subject and most of Patroclus’ stories involved Achilles, they stuck to Briseis' work as their main topic of conversation.

“Do you miss it?” Briseis asked. She’d just finished explaining the organization’s proposed expansion into prenatal care, and Patroclus couldn’t hide his envy. His field was internal medicine, but he’d almost chosen OB/GYN. He loved life, from its creation to its birth to everything that came after.

“Yes,” said Patroclus wistfully. “Very much.”

“You could always come back,” Briseis offered. “We’d love to have you…” She trailed off, squinting over Patroclus’ shoulder. Subtle shifts swept over her. Her strong body went rigid, her chin tilted down, her arms crossed over her chest. She was a fortress under attack. “Tell me you didn’t ask him to come, Patroclus. Tell me you didn’t”

“What?”

Patroclus twisted to look where Briseis was looking. There, prowling through dappled sunlight like some wild woodland creature, was Achilles.

Achilles lifted his hand when he saw Patroclus watching. Patroclus swallowed angrily and twisted back to Briseis. “I did not ask him to come,” he said urgently. Given Briseis’ feelings on the matter, she would consider that a great breach of trust. Achilles had asked to come several times, but Patroclus had always said no. “He’s supposed to be at training. I told him not to come.”

That was when Achilles reached them. He planted himself in front of them, hands on hips, face impassive. Patroclus knew this Achilles. This Achilles was trouble.

“You must be Briseis,” Achilles said. He held out his hand.

She stared it down like anyone else would stare down the barrel of a gun. Achilles’ withdrew the hand, the corners of his lips turning down.

“Right,” Achilles said slowly. “Well. I think it’s time we met. I’m Achilles. I’m Patroclus’ _therapon_.” The way he said the words turned them into a challenge.  

Briseis stood up and eased around the bench, putting the physical object between herself and Achilles.

“What are you doing here?” asked Patroclus. He stood as well.

“I wanted to meet your friend,” said Achilles. He folded his hands together over his stomach. He’d gotten into the habit after the assassination attempt.

“You don’t know the situation. I specifically told you not to come,” Patroclus said, trying to keep his voice low.

“Don’t you think it’s ridiculous that the two most important people in your life don’t know each other? I took matters into my own hands.”

Briseis bared her teeth. “Oh, yes. You’re good at _taking matters into your own hands_ , aren’t you, Pelides?”

“Excuse me?” Achilles turned his full attention to Briseis for the first time since he’d arrived, and Patroclus cursed internally.

“You heard me,” she said evenly. “You may fool Patroclus, but you don’t fool anyone else. You don’t fool me.”

Patroclus threw his hands out, one toward Briseis and one towards Achilles. Something had to be done to diffuse this situation; Briseis was already furious, and Achilles was well on his way. “Everyone just calm down-”

Briseis brought her hands down on the back of the bench, cutting him off abruptly. “No, Patroclus,” she said. “He wanted to meet me. Let him meet me.”

Achilles was practically growling now. “Watch yourself,” he warned.

“And what’ll you do if I don’t?” Briseis snarled. She leaned across the bench. If her body language were any more aggressive, Achilles would be bleeding. It was an effective mask for her fear. “Are you going to shoot me? Come on, Pelides. _Neutralize me_.”

A feral light entered Achilles’ eyes. The green in them had darkened almost to black. “And why would I need to do that, Briseis?” The image of a knife slipping into flesh and _twisting_ came to the forefront of Patroclus’ mind. “You are no threat.”

For several seconds, all that could be heard were birds and indistinguishable susurration of distant conversation.

“But you are,” Briseis said, breaking the silence. She let her hands fall from the bench. “Let him go, Pelides. If he means as much to you as you claim…release him. Give him a chance to be happy.”

“I can decide for myself,” Patroclus interjected. He was roundly ignored.

“You’re wrong,” Achilles said to Briseis, intensity crackling in his voice. “Together, we can be anything we want to be. Anyone we want to be. That’s the only way.”

Briseis folded in on herself, her eyes closing. “Then you will destroy him, and, after he is gone, you will destroy everything else. And that will be your legacy, Achilles Pelides.”

“Briseis!” Patroclus snapped sharply. She gave him a scathing glance in reply.

Unable to meet her gaze for long, Patroclus held his hand out to Achilles, half in support and half in caution. Usually, hearing of the possibility of a tainted legacy brought out the worst in Achilles. The rage Patroclus expected never materialized, however. Achilles merely squeezed Patroclus’ proffered hand and looked at Briseis, his expression carefully guarded.

“I’m glad Patroclus has a friend like you,” Achilles finally said. He let go of Patroclus and took a step back. “I’m sorry I showed up here. I wasn’t thinking. It won’t happen again.” Then he turned gracefully, long limbs flowing like water, and left.

Briseis waited until Achilles disappeared into the trees before rounding on Patroclus. “Are you sleeping with him?”

Patroclus had to work through a few false starts before he could get words past his tongue. “No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe. The truth is the truth.”

 Briseis looked away. She tapped her finger against her lips a few times, thinking. “He wants to sleep with you."

Patroclus bristled and blushed at the same time. He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to get back in control of himself. “Where is this coming from?”

“From him,” Briseis said. “He didn’t come all the way here to meet your friend, Patroclus. He came here to stake a claim.”

No. If that were true, Patroclus would know. He and Achilles did have a connection, one that seemed to defy sanity and reason on both their parts, but that’s why they were _therapon_. Achilles was so far beyond him in so many ways.

There was no way.

“See,” Briseis said when Patroclus didn’t respond. “You know it’s true.” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you feel the same way about him? Tell me the truth, Patroclus.”

In that moment, Patroclus saw Briseis. He really _saw_ her: her strength, her beauty, her loyalty and determination, her sense of justice. She was a good person, and she loved him. In a different world, Patroclus might have eventually worked up enough courage to ask her out. They’d been heading that way anyway. They would have dated for a while, moved in together, had long discussions about the future, married. They would have had kids, then grandkids, then great grandkids.

They would have been happy. Normal.

But that wasn’t this world. In this world, there was Achilles. He’d overwhelmed Patroclus from the start.

“Briseis,” Patroclus said, tentative. He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t want to lie.

“I should have known,” she said quietly. “That’s why you won’t leave.”

Patroclus flinched. He understood why Briseis thought that, but it wasn’t true. The things Achilles had done mattered, of course, but how could he judge someone else for killing when he’d killed himself? “Are you mad at me?” he asked instead.

Briseis joined him on his side of the bench and hugged him. “I just don’t want to lose you,” she said.

“You won’t,” he swore into her dark hair. “I love you, Briseis. No matter what happens with him.”

She threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled his lips to hers. The touch was light as a feather and immensely comforting.

“I love you too,” Briseis said, pulling back. A small frown wrinkled her brow. She stroked her finger across his cheek.

 

* * *

 

When Patroclus’ shift ended, he went back to the Palace but not to his rooms. He went to the olive grove. Achilles would find him.

Still in his dirty scrubs, Patroclus sprawled on the hard ground and closed his eyes. He let the sounds and smells of the world wash over him. Birds chittered and chirped. The wind rustled the leaves, carrying the smell of fresh cut grass. Patroclus inhaled deeply and opened his eyes.

The olive grove was gone.  The sunny spring day was gone. In its place was the clearing in the woods near Belen. It was autumn. The forgotten maroon train car crouched in the middle on its torn-up tracks, wrapped in shadow.

Patroclus blinked hard and the vision dissolved in a rush of darkness. When the black spots cleared from his vision, Achilles was crouched over him.

“You can go if you want,” Achilles said.

Patroclus sat up so his face was level with Achilles’. “What?”

“If you want to go, you can. I’ll release you from your duties as _therapon_. I won’t stop you.” Achilles spoke quickly. Patroclus could tell how difficult it was for him to say the words.

“I’m getting tired of people telling me to go,” said Patroclus.

Achilles pursed his lips. “I’m serious. I know you, Patroclus. I know a part of you wants…more than this. I’m fine with that. I want you to be happy.”

Utter sincerity rang in Achilles’ voice, and Patroclus heart skipped a beat. Achilles was serious. Lies were beyond him.  

“I appreciate that,” said Patroclus. He put his hands on Achilles’ knees. They were covered in soft black leggings. Achilles rarely wore anything else. “But if I wanted to leave, I would let you know. Trust me.”

Achilles breathed in sharply. As he exhaled, he touched the backs of his fingers to Patroclus’ cheek. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Inevitably, the day came when Achilles’ capacity for violence left the realm of the theoretical and landed a punch directly to Patroclus’ gut. Up until that point, it had been easy to lose himself in Achilles’ loneliness, his unfailingly human thirst for connection. Patroclus clutched eagerly to Achilles’ fragility and shoved his callousness to the side. Out of sight, out of mind.

One practical demonstration was all it took to bring everything back to the fore.

Patroclus had been the one to suggest they take a walk together through the _agora._ He loved the controlled chaos. Farmers sat tranquilly beside their vegetables and flowers while the louder electronics merchants hawked their wares to the passersby. Shoes, jewelry, clocks, and every type of useless trinket dangled from the hollow plastic pipes that curved over the cramped walk ways between the booths. The smell of sizzling _kebap_ and _döner_ , those Anatolian specialties, wafted from brightly-colored food stands.

It was a great, seething mass of humanity, and Patroclus loved it. Achilles wasn’t so taken with the noise, but he’d refused to be left behind, so Patroclus had found himself with a companion. He nibbled at a buttery cob of roasted sweet corn as they wandered through the stalls.

No one was expecting it when a great cry went up from a stall near the end of the row. A young boy, maybe in his mid teens, darted into the walk way, a bulky bag slung over his shoulder. The vendor followed close behind, waving his arms.

“Thief! Stop him!”

Achilles shot off like a rocket. He was _fast_. Faster than anyone Patroclus had ever seen. Even running through a crowd of confused people in an enclosed space hardly seemed to slow him down.

Patroclus dropped his corn in the dirt and followed. His progress was significantly slower. How did Achilles dodge through all these people? They jostled him on every side, obscuring both his path and his view.

Screams of alarm filtered through the people ahead of him. What was happening?

Through a gap in the crowd, Patroclus saw Achilles launch himself at the boy and tackle him to the ground. Then Achilles wrenched the kid’s arm behind his back, the one with the bag, and kept wrenching until the arm snapped with a resounding _crack_.

Patroclus redoubled his efforts to reach the fray. He spilled through the crowd and into the circle surrounding Achilles and the boy. At the same moment, Achilles took the boy’s head in his hands and slammed it into the ground. Then, to Patroclus’ horror, Achilles put his hands on the insensate boy’s head a second time. He was going to do it _again._

“Stop!” Patroclus screamed.  

Achilles looked over his shoulder at Patroclus. His hair was half up today, so only the bottom half was free to fan over his shoulders. “What?” he asked, completely nonchalant. He may as well have been ordering dinner.

The crowd was falling silent around them as the people began to realize exactly who they were gathered around. Those closest to the action began to back away slowly, fear evident in their movements. Others filmed the incident on their phones. The dog was off the leash.

Patroclus ignored them. “Let him go,” he commanded.   

Frowning now, Achilles removed his hands and held them toward Patroclus, palms out. The boy dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

Patroclus gritted his teeth and dropped down beside the boy. Once he was on the ground, he pushed Achilles away. It said something that Achilles allowed himself to be pushed. “Make sure emergency services are on their way,” Patroclus ordered. He checked the kid’s pulse and cursed. “An ambulance.”

Achilles didn’t question him. Rather, Patroclus watched out of the corner of his eye as Achilles found one of his own guards and began speaking quickly.

Five minutes later saw the kid being loaded onto an ambulance, a police officer following behind. Unless there were complications from the head injury, the kid should live. His arm was a wreck though. He wouldn’t be using it until winter.

Something bumped against Patroclus’ foot. He looked down and saw the boy’s bag. It was open. Inside were a bunch of carrots and potatoes. Achilles had almost beaten a teenager to death in the middle of the _agora_ for stealing a handful of vegetables.

Although Achilles tried several times to initiate a conversation, Patroclus refused to speak on the short ride back to the Palace. He kept seeing Achilles’ face as he bashed the kid’s head into the ground. He’d looked almost peaceful. That hadn’t been Achilles. That had been the Scourge of Troy.

But not a monster. Achilles had stopped. A monster wouldn’t have stopped. Patroclus repeated that to himself as he exited the car, as he walked next to Achilles to his rooms, as he followed him in. _A monster wouldn’t have stopped_ , he thought. _A monster wouldn’t have stopped._

When they were alone, Patroclus felt he had gathered himself enough to speak. “What the hell was that?”

The question made Achilles uncomfortable, but he was too relieved that Patroclus was speaking to him to not answer. He came a little closer but remained well out of arm’s reach. “I subdued a criminal,” he said cautiously. He looked down at his hands, noticed the blood on them, and quickly hid them behind his back.

Patroclus felt his lip curl in disgust. “You did not subdue him. Subduing him would have stopped with the tackle. You _pummeled_ him, Achilles! You nearly killed him.”

“When you take down an enemy, you can’t just give them a little slap and set them on their way. You have to beat them. Utterly. You have to make sure they can never come at you again. That’s how you _win_ , Patroclus.” Achilles stared at Patroclus, completely in earnest. “I did what I was taught to do. It was necessary.”

“He wasn’t an enemy. He was a teenager,” said Patroclus.

“He was a thief.”

“He was _hungry_.”

“He was a _thief_.” 

Patroclus stared at Achilles in disbelief. A sick feeling welled up in his stomach, along with the burning knowledge that if Achilles had killed that kid, he wouldn’t have cared.

“You have to understand, Achilles,” said Patroclus. His voice sounded as shaky as he felt.  “I’m having a hard time reconciling the person you were at the _agora_ with the person you are when you’re with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Achilles said, desperation beginning to bleed into his words. His posture too; his muscles were tensed beneath his dark green tunic. “I don’t what to say. This is who I am.”

It’s the person he had been shaped into, that was for sure. But maybe there was something Patroclus could try.

“Follow me,” he told Achilles. He went into the kitchen, Achilles almost tripping on his heels. “Wash your hands and sit at the table.”

Achilles did as he was bid while Patroclus picked a fig out of the shallow wooden bowl on the kitchen counter. Achilles loved figs. Patroclus wondered idly if Achilles loved him too. Probably. He certainly loved Achilles. Giving up wasn’t an option. Not yet.

Patroclus sat across the table from Achilles and set the fig directly between them.

“What’s your first impression of the fig?” he asked.

Achilles looked from Patroclus to the fig and back to Patroclus, unsure. “I’m sorry?”

“What pops into your head when you look at it,” Patroclus explained. “Don’t think about it. Just talk.”

“Uh…I see a fig. I like figs.” Achilles glanced at Patroclus to make sure he was doing it right. Patroclus nodded his encouragement. “This one would be good to juggle. I think it would be sweet. It reminds me of you,” he finished.

Patroclus licked his lips. Right. “Now tell me the facts. What do you know to be true about the fig?”

Achilles breathed out loudly through his nose, confused.

“Trust me,” said Patroclus.

Rubbing one hand over his eye, Achilles studied the fig. “Well. It’s mostly purple. Dark purple. There are lighter shades of green in there too. It’s shaped like a bulb.”

Patroclus nodded again. “More. Open your mind.”

“It grew on a tree. Under the skin, there’s a layer of white and then a layer of red. That’s where the seeds are. It was grown organically, so no pesticides. As it dries, it will start to taste more like sugar. Soon, probably later today, either you or I will eat it.”

“Good.” This is where things might get too abstract for Achilles, but Patroclus knew he would try anyway. Achilles hated it when Patroclus was upset. “Now I need you to use your imagination. How did this fig get here?”

“I guess it was growing on a tree,” said Achilles slowly. “With a bunch of other figs. It got bigger and riper until some farm hand plucked it off the tree. Or maybe it fell on the ground and got picked up from there. After that it probably went into a box with other picked figs. They were transported to the Palace kitchens where one of the kitchen assistants washed them and picked a few to be brought to me. This fig must have been one of the best ones, if it’s here.”

“Okay, final question,” said Patroclus. “How are you and the fig the same?”

Achilles blinked at him. “I don’t understand. It’s a fig.”

Patroclus rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together. This was the heart of the problem, right here. “I know it’s a fig. I still want you to try. Let me start you off. You and the fig are both going to die someday.”

“That’s what you mean?” Achilles asked doubtfully. Patroclus raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Alright. Okay. Let me think.” Achilles stared at the fig for a half a minute or so. “Maybe…me and the fig…we both have a purpose in life.”

Patroclus gestured for him to elaborate.

“The fig is here to feed people,” said Achilles. He spoke faster as he gained confidence. “I’m here to save people. We both have a higher purpose. Also, a lot of the major decisions that affected the fig were made by other people. Other people decided to pick it and transport it and put it in the bowl in my kitchen. My life feels the same, sometimes.” He looked at Patroclus, waiting for approval.

“Good.” Patroclus swept the fig to the side. “If you can find things in a common with a fig, then you can find things in common with the boy you almost killed today. What was your first impression of him?”

“Thief. Criminal.”

“As you have firmly established,” said Patroclus dryly. “And what are the facts?”

“That he stole,” answered Achilles promptly.

“What else?”

“He was young. Had brown hair. Fast.”

Each word was like pulling teeth. “The boy was skinny, Achilles,” said Patroclus. “Underweight. And he didn’t just steal anything. He stole carrots and potatoes. You can agree that’s fact, right?”

Achilles inclined his head.

“With those facts in mind – not your first impression or your judgment – how do you think that boy got to the place he was today?” Patroclus pushed.

“How could I possibly know that,” Achilles said. Not even his desire to please Patroclus could keep his frustration at bay. This was not his comfort zone.

“You don’t have to _know_. You have to imagine,” Patroclus bit out. “Maybe the boy deserved what you did, but maybe his parents died during the war and he has to steal to keep from starving. The whole point is that _you don’t know_.” His voice got louder and louder as he went on. He took a breath, trying to calm himself. “People are people, Achilles. Not obstacles you have to knock over on the way to your own goals.”

“Yeah, I…” Achilles was stunned by the force of Patroclus’ passion. “I used too much force. I get it.”

But he didn’t get it. Not really. Not yet.

Patroclus unlaced his fingers and cradled his head in his hands. This wasn't working. “You can shower now. We’re done.”

Achilles didn’t move “You’re disappointed in me,” he said quietly.

What could Patroclus say? Achilles was right. He covered his eyes with his palms and didn’t answer.

“I can do your questions, if that’s what you’re after,” Achilles said. “Forget the fig and the guy in the _agora_. I’ll tell you how you and I are the same.”

Cloth whispered against cloth as Achilles stood up and came to Patroclus’ side of the table. The air moved as Achilles knelt next to his chair. “Look at me? Patroclus, please.”

Patroclus lowered his hands and glanced down at Achilles before sighing and twisting in the chair so Achilles was between his legs. Achilles smiled in gratitude.

“We are so alike, you and I,” Achilles said. His green eyes glittered under the kitchen lights. “Our families disappointed us. We had no one, only duty. Then we met each other, Patroclus, and things changed. I can’t remember what life was like before you. Can you?”

“No,” Patroclus whispered.

Achilles leaned closer, but didn’t touch. “My life is so much better now. Isn’t yours?”

“Yes. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop challenging you.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” Achilles said urgently. “I want you to be exactly who you are, Patroclus. I want you. Always.” He shuffled closer and raised and tentative hand onto Patroclus’ knee. “See? I can do this. It’s hard with people I don’t care about, but it’s easy with you.”

Patroclus didn’t know what he was going to do until he did it. If Achilles hadn’t been so close, so completely open and trusting….but he was. His skin was perfectly smooth. His nose and brow and jaw were sharp, but still managed to have that _softness_ that Patroclus couldn’t look away from. When Achilles shifted his weight from one knee to the other, Patroclus could see his muscles curve through the thin fabric of his leggings.

Desire crashed through him like a wave breaking upon the shore. The strength of it shocked him. There was no defense against this.

Patroclus leaned down and pressed his lips against Achilles’. Radiant warmth pulsed outward from low in his stomach. Achilles pushed forward, bringing their lips more firmly together. Everything about it felt inevitable.

The broke apart with a little huff of air. Patroclus wanted more, wanted everything. His heart pounded painfully in his chest.

“It could be like this,” Achilles gasped. “It could be like this, always. If you let it. You and me.”

Patroclus sunk to his knees before Achilles and kissed him again.


	5. superlative

Most days, waking up was a gradual affair. Patroclus would stir briefly when Achilles rose – always at some ungodly hour, well before the sun – and stir again when Achilles wandered back in after his morning training to dress for the day. If he didn’t have to work, Patroclus would remain cocooned in his wrinkled sheets until Achilles grew too impatient to wait for him any longer. On those days, Achilles would sit on the edge of Patroclus’ cot and talk at him until Patroclus surrendered to the inevitable and opened his eyes. The first thing he’d see was Achilles smiling down at him.

Waking up the morning after the _agora_ incident was not a gradual affair. Patroclus woke abruptly to Achilles shaking him by the shoulders.

Even in the murky pre-dawn light, Achilles looked serious. Worried.

As soon as Patroclus focused on him, Achilles backed away. He crossed his arms over his chest, feigning an indifference Patroclus knew he did not feel. “My mother wants to see you,” he said. “At your earliest convenience.”

Patroclus lay back down and pulled his sheets over his head.

Achilles plucked the sheets away, exposing Patroclus to the world. “You should eat something first.” He paused for a second, then added, “You’ll be fine.”   

 

* * *

 

Newspapers and magazines occupied every bit of space on the Queen’s desk. They overlapped one another, revealing scattered pieces of the incident in the _agora_ the day before: the back of Achilles’ head, Patroclus’ raised hand, blood splashed across dirt.

The Queen herself sat behind the desk, a tablet held loosely in her meticulously manicured fingers. Her eyes scanned across the screen, her frown growing more and more frightening each time her finger swiped to a new page.

Finally, Thetis placed the tablet carefully on top of the newspapers and turned her attention to Patroclus. “I’ve been wondering this for a while,” she said calmly, folding her hands into her lap. Her back was ramrod straight. “But I’ve not had the opportunity to ask until now. What is wrong with you, Patroclus Menoitiades?”

“Excuse me?” Patroclus asked. His tension was clearly visible in the way his hands tightened around the arms of his chair. The knuckles on his hands were a sickly white.

“Do you think you’re helping him?” she demanded. Ice frosted thick over her tongue and her dark eyes. It made Patroclus’ heart beat faster. “Achilles has a destiny. He cannot afford to be soft. Do you understand?”

Although Thetis had phrased her remark as a question, Patroclus knew that an answer would not be welcome. He stayed silent.

“This will not happen again,” she said. “You will not make him weak in practice or in presentation. If you do, then _therapon_ or not, you will you never see my son again. I also promise I will take the price out of your flesh. I will tear you apart, burn the pieces, and toss your remains into the deepest reaches of the sea. No one will ever find your ashes.”

Queasiness nearly overcame Patroclus. His empty stomach was folding in on itself. Maybe he should have eaten something, like Achilles had suggested.

Then burning bile rose in Patroclus’ throat as his stomach did some kind of a loop-the-loop in his abdomen. No. He’d been right not to eat. The last thing he needed was to be sick on Thetis’ desk.

Thetis turned away from him with a flick of her hand. “Dismissed.”

 

* * *

 

Patroclus wandered to the olive grove after his meeting with Thetis. He felt shaken.

Achilles was there in the grove. He gazed steadily at Patroclus from where he sat beneath one of the central trees. Patroclus leaned his back against tree across from Achilles’.

“Did she threaten you?” Achilles asked heavily. When Patroclus nodded he offered a grimace of commiseration. “She does that to everyone. It doesn’t mean anything. She’s overprotective.”

“Overprotective.” The word stuck like a pebble in Patroclus’ mouth. He tongued it, pushing it against the roof of his mouth, then against the back of his front teeth, turning it over. It was uncomfortable. “She said no one would ever find my ashes.”

Achilles shrugged. One of his fingers trailed through the dirt near his thigh. “She wouldn’t actually. I would never speak to her again if she did. Besides, she doesn’t control my life.”

The gray bark of the olive tree behind him was rough under Patroclus’ fingers. The roughness was grounding. “You’re being dismissive,” said Patroclus. “And your mother has more say in your life than you like to admit.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re scared.”

“And you’re not?”

“That’s not what I mean.” Achilles pushed himself up by his palms, his muscles rippling under his clothes. “I’m saying she would never really hurt me. She loves me.”

Patroclus turned his eyes up to the vibrant sky in a desperate bid to keep the moisture there from spilling into open air. What a pernicious, persistent myth. Where had the idea come from that just because someone loves you, it means they’ll never hurt you? Why was it okay for someone to hurt you with impunity as long as they called themselves family?

Achilles deserved better. Better than Thetis, better than the unending cavalcade of fear and loneliness and death she forced him to lead. Patroclus didn’t doubt that she loved her son, but what good was a mother’s love if it brought nothing but destruction?    

The thought was a difficult one. Patroclus would give anything to see his own mom for even ten more minutes. None of it was fair.

He blinked his eyes a few times and shifted his gaze back to Achilles. “What about Deidameia?” 

Achilles stiffened. His face hardened. “What about her?”

“Your mother forced you into that marriage.” Achilles had never stated the truth explicitly, but there was no way the marriage had been his idea. In Patroclus’ view, it was one of Thetis’ greatest crimes; questions of love aside, the fact that Thetis forced Achilles to marry Deidameia brought up troubling issues of consent on both their parts. Everything about it made Patroclus feel hollow. “Reality isn’t matching what you’re saying. If Thetis wants to wreck us, she’ll wreck us. And believe me, Achilles; she wants to wreck us.”

“And I’m telling you, Patroclus. She knows how much you mean to me,” Achilles said. He advanced a few sure steps. "She wouldn't do that."

“Yes, she would,” retorted Patroclus. He stepped forward as well. The tension between them was frightening, even if Achilles wasn’t. “If she thinks it’ll be better for you – or her – she’ll do anything.”

Achilles spun on his heel, showing his back to Patroclus, then immediately spun back around. His fingers flexed at his side. “Are we really fighting about this?” His voice was loud, demanding. “I’m the greatest warrior who ever lived. That’s not arrogance, that’s the truth. But what does that matter if I can’t _fight_ for what I _want_?”

He stalked toward Patroclus slowly. Little flutters flickered in Patroclus’ stomach. He came to a stop a few feet away, his green eyes intent on Patroclus’ face. As he stood there, something in his face softened. “I know I’ve said this before, but I really can’t stay mad at you. Not even when you're wrong.”

Patroclus swallowed down his frustration. Unfortunately, the feeling was mutual. 

Achilles drew one of Patroclus hands from its place against the tree and turned it over in his own. “All I really want to say is that you’re the most important thing in my life. No one – and I mean no one, Patroclus – can separate us now.” He brought Patroclus’ hand to his mouth and kissed the palm. Patroclus inhaled sharply through his nose. “You don’t have to be scared. I’ll protect you.”

If only that were true.

“Say you believe me,” Achilles pushed.

“What happens when the Queen finds out about this?” Patroclus asked softly, dodging the question. He tugged at the hand Achilles had just kissed, not hard enough to break Achilles’ grip but enough to show what he was talking about. “It’s so new. It feels fragile. And when she finds out, which she definitely will, she’ll be furious.”

“Probably,” Achilles conceded. “But I can protect you. Say you believe me.”

There was no resisting Achilles when he was like this.

“Say it,” Achilles whispered.

Patroclus met Achilles’ eyes. “I believe you.”

The remaining tension in Achilles’ shoulders melted away. Patroclus pulled Achilles into a tight embrace. He wrapped his arms around Achilles’ chest and rested his chin on Achilles’ shoulder. The move put his face squarely in Achilles’ hair, but Patroclus didn’t mind. He smelled like pine needles.

A few moments passed before Achilles curled his hands around Patroclus’ shoulders. “I’ll prove you right,” Achilles said. “I’ll show you.” He pulled back a little so he could see Patroclus’ face again. “Let’s get away.”

“What?”

“Let’s go. To the woods. Chiron’s cabin. He won’t be there. He’s in Greece.”

“Achilles.”

“Please,” Achilles pleaded. “Things here…they’re all messed up. I keep disappointing you. It’s better when it’s just us.”

Patroclus studied Achilles’ face. To run now, even for a few days, might be a mistake. But this wasn’t really running away that Achilles was talking about; Achilles did not run from anything, ever. This was a tactical retreat. Time to figure out what to do next. Time to figure out each other.

Besides, Achilles was right. It was better when it was just them.     

“I don’t know what to think when you look at me like that,” said Achilles in the face of Patroclus’ scrutiny. He let the point of his index finger fall just to the side of Patroclus’ left eye. “Your eyes are so big. They’re so dark, like ink. Sometimes they’re all I can see.”

“All of this will still be here when we come back.”

“I know. Please.”

Patroclus pulled Achilles tight against him. “Alright.” As if he could deny Achilles anything.

 

* * *

 

They stopped just long enough at Chiron’s cabin to drop off their bags before heading into the forest. The mountain was a different world in the spring than in the winter; the snow was gone, and sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees, dappling the ground with golden patches of light. New, lighter green foliage sprouted from the darker green of old growth. Baby rabbits and fawns darted through the undergrowth while newborn sparrows chirped throatily from their cozy nests in the canopy.

Patroclus and Achilles raced each other through the forest, eager to get to the river Achilles had been talking about the whole ride up. When they arrived, they stripped off their clothes quickly and threw themselves into the clear water.

Patroclus came up spluttering. “It’s freezing!”

“It’s snow melt,” Achilles laughed back. “What did you expect?” With a graceful kick of his feet, he dove back under the water. Patroclus tried to go after him, but the round, mossy rocks of the river bed shifted under his feet.

When Achilles reemerged, he did so with a mighty toss of his head. The move made his long hair fan in a brilliant crest over his head, throwing water straight up in the air. Droplets of water shimmered in the sunlight, scattering miniature rainbows in all directions.

Patroclus grinned. With his own short hair there was no way he could replicate the feat. “Is there anything you can’t do?” he teased.

Achilles swam close enough to grab Patroclus around the middle. “Nope,” he said, just before he went under again, pulling Patroclus with him.

The sun climbed higher in the sky. Inspired by the sight, Achilles decided he’d like nothing better than to climb a tree.

“Don’t you want to get closer to the sun?” Achilles shouted down to Patroclus as he hauled himself onto the closest branch. He climbed like monkeys climb, swinging effortlessly from one branch to another. Patroclus followed, of course, but he couldn’t keep up.

They ate in the mid-afternoon, in a field of wildflowers by the cabin. After they finished, Achilles sat cross-legged in front of Patroclus while Patroclus braided his hair. Patroclus always liked braiding Achilles’ hair; the feeling of the soft strands between his fingers was lovely.

They sun dipped out of sight. Night fell.

They sat together on a log in front of the fire, Patroclus’ left shoulder pressed against Achilles’ right. The burning wood cracked and popped as the seeking flames uncovered little pockets of moisture buried beneath the bark. Nothing existed outside that circle light; the entirety of their universe, at least for that moment, was contained within. Patroclus hugged the blanket tight to his shoulders and waited for Achilles to speak.

It took him a while. Patroclus didn’t know what he waiting for. A sign, perhaps. Achilles believed in signs. Fate. Destiny. He was certainly staring into the fire as if it would provide some kind of revelation.

Patroclus tried not to think about those things. In his experience, fate had never done anyone any favors.

“I think you’re the best person I’ve ever met,” said Achilles eventually. He said the words slowly, like he wasn’t sure how they would be received. A tentative offering.

Patroclus swallowed. He breathed through his nose and smoke stung his nostrils. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not true.”

Achilles shifted against him. “It feels true,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to tell you how I feel, Patroclus. You’re so different from anyone else I know. The way you talk to me. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by you. Or like the whole world is overwhelmed by you. Like I can be everything I’m supposed to be, but I can be happy at the same time. You’re the only thing that makes me happy.”

The wind shifted and blew dark smoke straight into Patroclus’ face. He took the moment to turn his face to the side. What Achilles was saying was stirring up a torrent of emotions. On the one hand, part of him was thrilled. Here was Achilles – beautiful, intense, loyal, fierce Achilles – reflecting the same depth of feeling Patroclus found within himself. His words conveyed the same profound sense of connection, the same ceaseless longing that burned Patroclus from the inside out. It was joy itself to hear that it was reciprocated.

On the other hand, something about it felt off.  

“I’m glad I make you happy,” Patroclus said. “But I shouldn’t be the only thing that makes you happy. That’s not right. You deserve more from your life than that.”

As he was speaking, Patroclus realized: this was the thing. This was what was bothering him. If someone was _the_ _best_ or _the most beautiful_ or _the only thing_ , then they were no longer a real, actual person in the world. Not in that moment. They became a symbol to the person using the superlative. And while relationships could start as symbolism, they couldn’t grow that way.

Patroclus wanted Achilles to see that. He wanted Achilles to see that Patroclus couldn’t make Thetis change her mind or Deidameia disappear. He couldn’t give Achilles the grand legacy he wanted or make his life any less violent.

Chiron was right. All Patroclus could do was love Achilles for exactly who he was and pray that it was enough.

In the meantime, he would ignore the little, persistent voice in the back of his mind that whispered _no, it will not be enough_. That voice didn’t matter. Patroclus wasn’t the one who believed in fate. He also really, really wanted Achilles, problems and all.

Achilles continued to stare into the fire. “Shouldn’t I be the one who decides what I deserve?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” answered Patroclus. He glanced at Achilles’ profile from the corner of his eye. “You can be anyone you want to be. You don’t have to listen to anybody.”

A distinct note of stubbornness entered Achilles’ voice. “What if this is who I want to be? This person I am right now with you?”

Patroclus thought of Thetis’ disturbingly detailed threat against him. “I might not always be around, you know.”

Achilles turned to him, alarm written clear across his face. Patroclus took his hand quickly and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The blanket sagged toward his elbows.

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying. It would take something pretty monumental for me to leave you voluntarily, and I honestly don’t see that happening. But circumstances can always conspire against us.” A piece of the wood from the fire gave a particularly loud pop. Patroclus ignored it. “From what you’re saying, right now your life consists almost entirely of me and fighting. Take me out of the equation and all that’s left is violence.”

Achilles frowned. “I’m a soldier, Patroclus. That’s my job. That’s how I protect my people. It’s what I’m good at, what I’ll be remembered for. It’s what I was born to do.”

Disgust left a bitter taste in Patroclus’ mouth. He let the blanket drop from his elbows and held Achilles’ face between his hands, making sure that Achilles’ green eyes were fixed on his own. “It is not! No, Achilles, look at me. This is so important. You are so much more than someone who kills. I see it every day. And no matter what happens, the Achilles I’ll remember is the one who juggles figs and makes up songs in his head and climbs trees. My _therapon_.”

Not the monster. Not the man who slit the throats of children outside the gates of Canakkale. Not the man his family had made him.

Achilles’ eyebrows threaded together. He opened his mouth to speak once, twice. Then he swallowed hard and finally managed. “Sometimes I look at you and feel overwhelmed, but sometimes I look at you and feel so ashamed of myself.” He stumbled through the words, halting after every other one. Oh, this was difficult for him. “I never used to doubt anything.”

Patroclus’ heart broke a little for the pain he saw in Achilles’ eyes, but pain often came with change. It was the same with healing. Every doctor knew that.

“I just want you to be happy. With or without me,” Patroclus said. He leaned forward and brushed his lips across Achilles’. “I want us to be happy too, if we can.”

Achilles made a little noise in the back of his throat, one that Patroclus felt more than heard. "You're so beautiful, Patroclus," he said, voice thick, "and smart. But you don't get this at all. Not yet." Then he was right there; his warm lips were pressed tight against Patroclus’, asking for whatever he was willing to give.

Patroclus let go. He kissed back, opening his mouth and taking Achilles in. Closer. He wanted to be closer and closer. For all that he’d denounced superlatives earlier, he was having a hard time remembering why now.

What was Achilles if not the best thing he’d ever tasted? The most exquisite person he’d ever held in his arms? The most _right_. Patroclus felt undeserving. How generous of Achilles to share himself like this.

Achilles turned his head a bit to the side so he could speak without really having to take his lips off Patroclus’ skin. “Let’s go inside."


	6. shadow

They spilled backwards into Chiron’s cabin. Inside, the air was cold and dark. Patroclus leaned back, breathing heavy, and let the dusty smells of coal and wheat wash over him. Achilles took the opportunity to push kisses into Patroclus’ jaw, his neck, the curve of his Adam’s apple.  

Patroclus pushed Achilles away the best he could. “Turn on the lanterns, would you?”

Achilles pursed his lips but didn’t offer any further protest. He parted from Patroclus reluctantly, dragging his fingers down Patroclus’ arm as he pointed himself toward the nearest lantern.

The momentary separation gave Patroclus time to simultaneously pull himself together and freak out. This was happening. This was really happening. So far, he and Achilles had only kissed. Kissed deeply, yes, but this was more. They were going to take off their clothes. They were going to touch each other. Sleep together.

Oh, dear.

Patroclus pressed the back of his cold hand against the flushed, raw heat of his cheek. How had they arrived at this point? Even a year ago, this whole scenario would have seemed fantastical. Achilles was radiant, practically a god already, beautiful and terrible. But not, as Patroclus understood better with each passing day, untouchable.

No. Definitely touchable. Companionable. Lovable.

 _Be brave_ , he thought.

A soft orange glow filled the room as Achilles succeeded in lighting first the lantern over the stove, then the lantern that sat on the table in the middle of the room. When his task was complete, he returned to Patroclus. Achilles didn’t touch him though. He merely stood, his hands curled loosely at his sides.

“Are you sure?” Achilles asked. He shuffled forward a few steps, then bit his lip. His braided hair was like flame under the lamp-light. The deep purple of his tunic suddenly shone as velvety as the night sky.  

Patroclus had to take a deep breath. “Are you serious?”

“It’s just…I wasn’t sure you’d ever want this. With everything that’s happened.” Achilles gave him a small smile. “This is a little surreal, to be honest. Like a dream or something. I keep thinking you’ll change your mind and walk out of here.”

“You’re worried _I’ll_ change _my_ mind?” Patroclus marveled at the thought. He shook his head, his eyes falling to the floor. “You’re ridiculous. And too good for me.”

An overlong silence from Achilles brought Patroclus’ eyes back up. Achilles was staring at him, his lips slightly parted.  

“What?”

Achilles blinked. “No one has ever called me that before.”

“Ridiculous?”

“No,” said Achilles. His eyes shone darkly in the warm light, and his voice was scratchy. “Good.”

With that softly spoken word, Patroclus’ nervousness vanished. He took Achilles into his arms without hesitation. There was no restraint in it, no holding back; Achilles met him in the middle, and they were both gone.

Patroclus melted into the hold, into the kiss. It was different than the kisses that came before. This one was not burdened with desperation or embittered with unmet expectation. This one was pure. They were doing this because they wanted to. They wanted each other.

Achilles’ quick hands were moving then, up and under Patroclus’ shirt. The flood of information to his brain was such that he couldn’t tell whether they felt flame-hot or glacier-cold. Either way, he shivered as Achilles drew his hands up his sides, drawing the shirt up as he went. When the thin fabric snagged under his arms, he let go of Achilles long enough to lift his hands.

Even the five seconds it took to shake his head free and find Achilles’ mouth again were endless.

The five seconds it took Achilles to get his own tunic off were equally intolerable. As soon as the fabric began its descent to the floor, Patroclus fell on Achilles again, running his hands down the firmness of Achilles’ chest. He kissed along Achilles’ jaw and down his neck, only pausing when his hands encountered the faded scar across Achilles’ belly.

Patroclus covered the scar with the flat of one palm and curled his other hand around the back of Achilles’ graceful neck. He drew Achilles to him so he could kiss the skin just in front of his ear.

“What if they’d taken you from me before I knew you?” he asked solemnly. “What would I have done?”

Lived a simpler life, certainly. A less confusing one. A safer one.

A colder one.

Achilles’ hands tightened against Patroclus’ waist, and he buried his face in Patroclus’ hair. “You’re my best friend,” he whispered, in the same way a child would whisper a secret.

Patroclus sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. For a moment, he was flooded again with the dusty smell of the cabin and, beneath that, the earthy, pine needle smell of Achilles. Ripples of heat seemed to spread outwards across his skin.

His eyes snapped open. “Bed,” he gasped.

Achilles nodded, even as he leaned more weight onto Patroclus so he could kick off his shoes. They thumped into the wall behind him, jolting them both into motion, and once again they were falling. This time they hit the bed.

The waistband of Achilles’ leggings stretched as Patroclus slid his hands over the firm muscles of Achilles’ ass. He stopped kissing Achilles long enough to catch his glazed eyes, raising an eyebrow to secure permission. Achilles nodded, leaving Patroclus free to pull the leggings and underwear down Achilles’ thighs.

They both looked down. Patroclus was half-hard in his jeans from the kissing and touching and the _everything_ , but Achilles was already all the way there.

Achilles kicked the leggings and underwear the rest of the way off, half rolling on top of Patroclus as he set to removing Patroclus’ pants and underwear as well. Patroclus grunted as Achilles’ hips came into contact with his own, the pressure and friction working quickly to catch him up with Achilles.

Then the pants – along with his shoes, which Achilles had pulled off without Patroclus noticing – were on the ground and Patroclus was naked. They were both naked.      

Achilles crawled back over him so they were face to face. Slowly, Patroclus nudged his head forward until his lips brushed over Achilles’.  He watched as Achilles’ eyes fluttered closed.

“Do we have anything?” Patroclus asked quietly, trying not to break the warm magic that had settled over them.

“I, uh, yeah, I brought…” The words tumbled sweetly from Achilles’ mouth, like fat, fuzzy bees bumping into each other as they collected pollen wildflowers. Patroclus smiled. He’d never seen Achilles like this before. “Somewhere in the bags. I wasn’t expecting…Patroclus, I only hoped. You understand?”

“Of course.” Patroclus let his hands drift from Achilles’ back to Achilles’ head, where he buried them in the remnants of his disheveled braid. “Go get it.”

Achilles rubbed his hips against Patroclus, leaving Patroclus a bit dazed. “No,” Achilles said.

“Then let me up. I’ll get it.”

 _“No_.” The force of Achilles’ kiss kept Patroclus from speaking, which was no doubt the intention. When Achilles finally released him, Patroclus was panting too hard to speak.

“Stay here,” Achilles said. He began to move down, pressing kisses straight down Patroclus’ sternum. “Don’t leave me. Not for one second. I’ll take care of you, I swear.”

Patroclus looked down his body to meet Achilles’ eyes. “What?”

And then Achilles wrapped his lips around Patroclus and sucked.

Patroclus’ skeleton nearly jumped out of his skin. The floor and ceiling switched places for a second. He looked down again to see Achilles blowing him with great enthusiasm. It was obvious Achilles didn’t have much experience in this area, but, as with most everything else, he was a natural.  

A low, primal noise escaped Patroclus’ throat.

Achilles let Patroclus slip out his mouth. He licked his already wet lips. “Is this right? I’ve never done this before. Tell me what you want.”

“Never been with a man before?”

“Never been with anyone but _her_. And she doesn’t talk to me anymore. Not during.”

 _Her_. Deidameia. Change the subject, change the subject.

Also, really? No one else?

“We can slow down, if you want,” Patroclus said quickly. “You’re zero to sixty here.”

Stubbornness tightened Achilles’ jaw. “No. Faster. Always faster.” His face broke into a wicked grin, just as he bent his head to lick a broad stripe right up the back of Patroclus’ cock. Patroclus groaned. “And this way we don’t have to worry about friction. Yet.”

And then Achilles went back to his task with gusto. For the most part, Patroclus was too lost to speak, his hands clenched tightly in Chiron’s scratchy bedspread, but occasionally he’d surface long enough to provide Achilles with a bit of direction – _Slower. Harder. Touch me. Perfect._

Meanwhile, the swirling pleasure in his abdomen ratcheted up degree by degree. Sex had never felt like this before, but he’d also never felt this way about another person before. It was terrifying. It was exquisite.

Patroclus was fast approaching the point of no return.

“Achilles,” he managed. “I’m almost…just take your mouth off and use your hand, alright?”

Achilles made a noise half-way between acknowledgement and disappointment, but he did as he was told. He pulled off, his flame-filled hair falling all around his face, and brought Patroclus off with a few deft twists of his hand. The feeling was intense: a dizzying rush that had him throwing his head from side to side and repeating Achilles’ name into the empty air of the cabin.

When Patroclus could open his eyes again, Achilles was lying next to him, holding his hands.

Patroclus kissed him tenderly, first on the brow, then his eyes, then his lovely mouth. “Let me do you now.”

Achilles bit his lip. He looked vaguely embarrassed. “I’ve already been done. Couldn’t help it. Not with you looking like you did.”

Patroclus glanced down and, sure enough, Achilles was as spent as he was.

Damn. He’d really been looking forward to doing that himself. “Next time,” he promised.

“Next time,” Achilles echoed. His grip on Patroclus’ hands tightened convulsively.

It was a few minutes before Achilles spoke again. “I’d also like you to…I’d like to have you…inside me, Patroclus.” The last few words all came out in a mad, awkward rush. Patroclus felt his eyes widen.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know how else to ask,” Achilles continued. “It’d only be if you wanted to, of course. I’d never make you. If you didn’t want to, that is. We could do whatever. I’m happy with whatever.”

Patroclus took a moment to brush the strands of Achilles’ hair that had fallen across his sweaty face back behind his ear. The very idea of having Achilles that way…and to have the man here, in his arms, offering himself…what a gift.

His silence, however, was making Achilles doubt himself. Patroclus could see storm clouds gathering behind his eyes. “I’m sorry,” Achilles said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No,” Patroclus said. He brushed his lips across Achilles’, just for emphasis. “I want that.” _I want you. For as long as I can have you._

He kissed Achilles again, just because. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

The dawn wind plucked at Patroclus’ white cotton shirt as he scrambled down a steep track of forest and into his favorite place in this part of Anatolia. The small clearing was a gorgeous one: fall had descended with a vengeance, burning the leaves on the trees with a dizzying mixture of red, orange, and yellow; soft, hairy moss crawled across the shadier parts of the trees and rocks; songbirds he wasn’t familiar with spoke to each other across the branches. But the best part of the clearing by far were the overgrown, abandoned train tracks that bisected the weedy grass, and the old, rusted-out train car that sat on upon them.

Patroclus approached the maroon train car the same as he did every other day, but today something was different. It took a moment for Patroclus to realize what was wrong. Usually, spiders skittered in the train car’s dark corners. Squirrels and rabbits darted within, bouncing to and fro as they carried food to their nests. Usually it was full of life.

Today, as Patroclus peered into the murky depths of the train car, there were no spiders or squirrels or rabbits. Instead, one darker shadow detached itself from the layers of shadows that lived in the back corner of this lonely, abandoned place. The shadow advanced slowly, crawling along the floor of the train car, oozing its way toward the door. A predator.  

Patroclus jerked backwards. Fear knocked him back on his heels, made his brain spin. He struggled to remember his military training, but nothing came. Lacking a better plan, he scanned the forest floor for a sharp-looking rock. He needed something, and fast.

Today, the train was not full of life, but rather _a life_. A singular life. Something was in there. Something dark.

The clearing no longer seemed inviting. Everything was darkening. The sun’s rays could no longer penetrate the forest canopy. Colors muted. Reds and oranges and yellows bled away until only gray remained. Green hardened and calcified, turned black. Wind sprang from nowhere, tossing creaking branches and rattling leaves, and then whipping back to nowhere.

 _No,_ Patroclus thought. _No._

This wasn’t right. None of this was how it should be. Where was Achilles?

He groped along the ground for a weapon, but there was nothing. No rocks, no leaves, no grass. Everything was barren. Dying.

His bid to defend himself failing, he called out for Achilles. Achilles had promised to stay with him. To protect him. That is what he’d said, in this very place, on the first day they’d met: _Even if it wasn’t safe, it wouldn’t matter. I’m here._

But he wasn’t here now.

Patroclus sobbed in deep, heaving breaths. A metallic grating behind him had him spinning to face the train car. The shadowy figure stood in the rectangular doorway, silhouetted against the lighter shadows within. Patroclus couldn’t see the figure’s face, but he did know the thing was staring straight at him.

Patroclus looked away. Just for a second. When he looked back, there was no shadowy figure in the doorway of the train car.

Standing in its place was Patroclus himself: dark, vacant eyes wide open, cold skin ashen, blood dripping for his snarling mouth. A body was collapsed at his feet, its throat torn open, ripped apart by sharp teeth.

Patroclus stared at his other self in horror, opened his own mouth, and screamed.

The other Patroclus licked its lips. Everything was grayscale except for the blood. The blood was bright and clear against the paleness of his lips. He looked like a monster.

His other self spoke. “ _Patroclus_ ,” he said. “ _Patroclus_.”

 

* * *

 

“Patroclus!”

The voice barely registered. Patroclus thrashed, trying to come to terms with being suddenly horizontal. Something was on his shoulders, squeezing him, shaking him.

“Patroclus, wake up. Wake up, please!”

His eyes finally opened. Achilles was above him, on him, on top of him. He was absolutely everywhere, and Patroclus was suffocating. With herculean effort, Patroclus rolled away Achilles and off the side of the bed. The hard floor smacked painfully against his naked chest, but the pain felt good. It felt real.

Breathe. Try to breathe.

“Patroclus?”

Patroclus had recovered enough by then to realize that Achilles was worried about him.

“I’m fine,” Patroclus said. He pushed himself upright, swinging his legs forward so his back was against the bed, his knees drawn up in front of him. The cabin was dark. Achilles must have turned off the lanterns. Huh. “Just a dream. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Details were already slipping away, water poured through the sieve of consciousness. Soon, all that would remain were the feelings the dream – the nightmare – invoked: fear, horror, and dreadful premonition.

Achilles moved behind him, letting his legs fall on either side of Patroclus’ shaking body. He leaned down, his arms dangling across Patroclus’ chest, his head coming to rest in the nest of Patroclus’ hair. Now that Patroclus had come down from the dream a little, Achilles’ presence was comforting rather than suffocating.

Patroclus reached up to slip his fingers through Achilles’, prompting Achilles to give a sigh of relief. His breath tickled the tops of Patroclus’ ears.

“Clysonymus?” Achilles asked softly.

Patroclus frowned, trying to remember. He remembered the train car. He remembered the other version of himself, animalistic and monstrous, dripping blood. Vaguely, he also recalled a body at the other him’s feet. The ripped throat remained constant, but the rest of the body kept morphing in his mind. One second it was male, then female. One moment its hair was golden, then deep brown, then short, then long.

Never once did it look like Clysonymus though. Never did it look like a twelve-year-old boy. Never did it have the prickly fuzz that Clysonymus had worn.     

“Yes,” Patroclus lied. Achilles may be above prevarication, but Patroclus was not. Dreams didn’t mean anything anyway. They were a reflection of Patroclus’ inner self, not the world around him. “I did warn you.”

“You did,” said Achilles. “And I told you I’d help you.” He rubbed his cheek against the top of Patroclus’ head like some great cat. “Is this helping?”

Patroclus surprised himself by laughing. The laugh was small, but it was genuine. “Yes,” he said. “You’re helping.”

A few minutes went by like that, with Achilles wrapped around Patroclus, bare and warm. The peacefulness of it brought Patroclus fully back to the present.  

Achilles’ physical presence helped too. He was solid, real. Occasionally, he would kick one of his feet idly. The movement drew Patroclus’ eye every time.

The next time Achilles kicked, Patroclus let go of Achilles’ hands and grabbed the foot. He brought it in front of him to examine, forcing Achilles to arc his leg around Patroclus’ body.

Achilles grunted. “What is it with you and my feet?”

Patroclus ran his finger over the elegant arch and watched as muscles tightened under skin. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Achilles wiggled his toes. He brought his hands up from Patroclus’ chest and cradled his face from behind. Patroclus could hear the smile in his voice. “Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“Yeah, well.” Patroclus smiled too. He felt better now, truly. “Maybe it’s not nothing. I can’t help it if I like all the parts of you.” He kissed the top part of Achilles’ foot.

“All the parts?”

“All of them.” Each separate toe got a kiss. “It is a lovely foot.”

Achilles kicked gently, pulling his foot out of Patroclus’ hand. Then he nudged Patroclus’ head. “Turn around,” he said.

Climbing to his knees, Patroclus turned. Achilles pulled him up and forward until he was sprawled across Achilles’ front.

“Feeling better?” Achilles asked, hands stroking across Patroclus’ back.

“Yeah,” Patroclus said. He tilted his head up to receive Achilles’ kiss, the dream forgotten under the weight of Achilles’ attention.


	7. i feel you

A solid beam of yellow sunlight sliced through the triple-paned windows of Chiron’s cabin and slashed straight across Patroclus’ face. Roused by the uncomfortable light, Patroclus cracked his eyes and let the world bleed in, little by little.

The cabin looked different in the morning: a little colder maybe, a little less color, but more real. More like a home. And, oh, wow, their clothes were everywhere. One of Achilles’ shoes was jutting out the top of Chiron’s sink.

Patroclus smiled.

Achilles must have felt him move or noticed his change in breathing because he nudged Patroclus from behind with one bony knee. “You finally awake?” he asked. “I’ve been up for ages, but didn’t want to wake you.” He ran a finger down Patroclus’ spine. “You’re beautiful when you sleep. I’ve thought so since you moved into my room.”

Patroclus flipped over so he was face to face with Achilles. “Is that why you wanted me in there?”

Except for a slow curving of his lips, Achilles ignored him. Instead of replying directly, he trailed a couple fingers across Patroclus’ forehead. “You’re sweaty,” he said.

“I’m not used to sharing a bed. And you’re very hot.”

“Oh?” Achilles grinned and pressed his lips into Patroclus’ shoulder. “How hot?”

“I knew it,” Patroclus said, pressing a kiss of his own into the hollow of Achilles’ throat. “You’re a narcissist. Textbook.”

Achilles rolled his eyes. “If I have a sin, it’s not vanity.”

“Then what is it?”

“You tell me.”

“Well, it is a little bit vanity,” Patroclus answered thoughtfully. With gentle hands, he petted Achilles’ hair back from his face. His fingers caught on a few tangles. “No soldier keeps hair this impractical unless they’re trying to make a statement. Not that I don’t like it.”   

Achilles pursed his lips. “I want to be memorable.”

“Exactly,” Patroclus said. “Which brings me to your real sin: pride.” He brushed his lips against Achilles’ to take any potential sting out of the words. Achilles wasn’t likely to take offense – he wasn’t the type to get upset over sincerity, especially when he’d asked for it – but even so.

“You think I’m proud?” Achilles asked softly.

“You’re an arrogant bastard,” said Patroclus, not unkindly. He took Achilles’ hands in his. “You want to live forever. What would you call that?”

“Ambition? Living up to my potential? It doesn’t have to be a negative thing.”

Patroclus nodded slowly. There was something to be said for having a healthy amount of pride. Self-respect was a kind of pride, and necessary. But pride in excess was disaster waiting to happen. “Our Greek forbearers believed pride was the deadliest of all the sins. To them, it was the sin from which all others sprang. In their stories, that pride, that _hubris_ , always destroyed that which gave it life. It’s parasitic.”

Pain flashed across Achilles’ face. “I know that,” he said, insistent. “I do. But even as our forbearers condemned those who dared to reach further, they also celebrated them. For the heroes we remember, the ones who make the history books and become legend, pride was practically a pre-requisite. The means is the message, and, in the real world, the message is that sometimes destruction is the price you pay.”

The means is the message. Actions speak louder than words. Condemning _hubris_ with words and then demanding it with every action. Maybe Achilles was right. Maybe he did know the Greeks better than Patroclus did.

“You ask me not to leave all the time,” Patroclus said. “But it sounds like you’re the one who’s getting ready to leave me.”

Achilles made a harsh noise of denial. He moved his hands to frame Patroclus face. “Never.” Then he moved one hand down and pressed it into Patroclus’ belly, just above his groin. “Besides, I don’t think my real sin is pride. Pretty sure it’s lust.”

Patroclus took the deflection for what it was and allowed himself to be steered toward more pleasurable topics. How many times could they have this conversation anyway? The time for words was rapidly approaching its end.

“So what about my sin?” asked Patroclus lowly. He splayed his hands across Achilles’ chest, rubbing lightly over his nipples. A gratified smile crossed his face when Achilles sucked in a ragged breath. “What do you think? Greed, perhaps?”

It was probably wrath, actually, but some things were better left unspoken.

“No, no,” Achilles said, as solemnly as was possible under the circumstances. He used his unoccupied hand to trace lightly over Patroclus’ lips. “Whatever my sins are, your hands are clean. You’re perfect.”

Patroclus narrowed his eyes. “No one’s perfect.” He kissed Achilles full-on, heedless of morning breath or unwashed bodies or any of those mundane things that people who _were not them_ had to worry about.

He rolled on top of Achilles, loving the way they were already skin to skin, loving the way Achilles’ well-muscled body coiled and uncoiled beneath him. Hot, soft skin yielded to him, again and again, so sweetly. Patroclus knew that Achilles wasn’t like this with anyone else, and felt lucky all over again.

Eventually, Achilles drew his head back to take in some air. He cast his gaze toward their bags, then fixed Patroclus with a pleading stare. “Can we? I don’t want to wait. Can we now?”

Patroclus looked to the bags too. He knew exactly what Achilles was talking about – the supplies Achilles had mentioned last night were currently sitting _somewhere in the bags_.

“Please,” Achilles said, noticing where Patroclus eyes were. He squirmed against the bed, and looked up at Patroclus with huge, moss-green eyes. “I can beg if you want. Please, Patroclus. Please.”

The breath caught in Patroclus’ throat, caught behind a huge ball of desires he didn’t particularly care to identify.

“Hush,” he said, stroking his thumb across Achilles’ cheek. “Whatever you want. I’ve got you.” He pushed more kisses into Achilles lips, into his cheeks, his eyes, his throat. Then he slid away and crossed to Achilles’ bag as quickly as he could. He could feel Achilles’ eyes burning into his bare backside.

Eager to continue, Patroclus upended Achilles’ bag. Clothes spilled onto the ground, along with hair product, a few knives, a holstered pistol, and…there. Lube. A rather large pump bottle full of lube.

No expectations indeed.

“Where are the condoms?” Patroclus asked, rifling through the clothes.

“Didn’t bring any,” answered Achilles.

“What?”

Achilles frowned at his incredulousness. “We don’t need them.”

“Yes, we do,” Patroclus said lightly. He gave up on Achilles’ things and switched to his own bag. Achilles wasn’t the only one who’d come prepared. When he had both condom and lube in hand, he turned back to Achilles, triumphant.

Achilles, however, was wearing an even deeper frown than before. “Why do we need the condom? I trust you more than anyone on the planet, and I think you trust me too. I don’t have anything. Neither do you.”

Patroclus felt his eyebrows go up. “How do you know that?”

A hint of sheepishness entered Achilles voice. “I’ve seen your medical records.”

“Okay,” Patroclus said with a sigh. If Achilles had seen them, Thetis had definitely seen them. “I’m going to ignore that breach of privacy for the moment. And, yes, we need to use a condom.”

“Why? I want to feel you. Only you.”

Still crouched on the ground, Patroclus rubbed the back of his hand across his face. “Are you really going to make me say it, Achilles?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that…” Patroclus hesitated. “I’m not the only one you sleep with. Which…alright. I knew that going in, and you’re not to blame. But I’m training to be a doctor, and I’m not going to leave this up to chance. As long as we’re not monogamous, it’s safer to be safe.” He held up the little square of shiny plastic in his left hand. “It’ll still be good.”

Achilles blinked like that truly wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. There were times when Patroclus suspected he forgot he was already married. Patroclus couldn’t blame him; what the two of them had was so intense, forgetting other people existed was remarkably easy.

Finally, Achilles gave a short nod. “Fine,” he said. “For you. Now get over here.”

Patroclus slipped back into bed, supplies close at hand, and swept Achilles into a heated kiss. He gave it his all, his tongue and lips and hands moving together to make Achilles forget what had just happened. To make him focus on what was going to happen next.

When he had Achilles good and ready, he backed off, grabbing the bottle of lube. “You’re aware of the general process?” he asked Achilles.

Breathless, Achilles shook his head yes.

“So you know that this will be a little painful? I’ll go real slow and probably use half this bottle, but you’re still going to feel it. That’s just what first times are usually like. Is that okay?”

“That’s all I _want_ ,” Achilles groaned. “I’m not totally clueless about the ass, you know. I’ve touched myself there before. And I cleaned myself before we left.”

“I thought you weren’t expecting anything?”

“I said I hoped.”

“Yeah, me too.” Patroclus swallowed hard. Achilles was a marvel. “Lie on your side, please. I’ll be right behind you.”

Patroclus covered his fingers with a generous amount of lube and moved behind Achilles. “I’m going to touch you now,” he said, stroking his unlubed hand back and forth down Achilles’ back. Achilles nodded.

Moving slowly, Patroclus reached down and started rubbing his fingers gently against Achilles’ rim. Achilles jerked at first, the sensation a new one, but settled down quickly, pressing his back into Patroclus’ chest.

Patroclus hooked his chin over Achilles’ shoulder. “Touch yourself,” he said, pausing briefly to hand the lube to Achilles. The more relaxed Achilles could get, the better this would go.

Achilles complied without a sound. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheek as he took himself in hand, jerking slowly.

“That’s perfect,” Patroclus encouraged. “Just beautiful.” With no further ado, he pushed the first part of his finger into Achilles.

Achilles grunted with the pressure.

“Relax for me,” said Patroclus. He waited until Achilles was ready, applied a bit more lube, and pushed deeper. Achilles’ muscles tightened and relaxed against his finger several times.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” said Achilles. The hand on his dick was moving faster as he relaxed even further into Patroclus. “Just you and me.”

Patroclus went slowly, pushing his finger in and out of Achilles a few inches at a time. “You’re doing so well,” he said, carding his other hand through Achilles’ hair. “Just you and me here. No one else.” He pulled out his finger, added even more lube, and pushed two back in.

Achilles groaned through the stretch.

When Achilles was ready, Patroclus added a third finger. As soon as Achilles was used to the feeling, he started pumping his hand a little faster. “I want you to do something for me,” Patroclus said, his mouth right next to Achilles’ ear. “I want you to come on my fingers, like this. You’ll be so relaxed. It’ll feel good, I promise.”

Achilles nodded eagerly. Minutes later he was coming onto Chiron’s sheets. Patroclus made a mental note to clean them before he and Achilles left. He doubted Chiron would appreciate coming home to find his sheets smelling like Achilles’ semen.

“Beautiful,” Patroclus said when Achilles was finished. “Are you ready for me?”

Achilles twisted his head around and found Patroclus’ mouth with his own. That must be a yes.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, Patroclus tore the condom wrapper and rolled the condom onto his dick. As he rolled the condom up, he realized that his hands were shaking. He wanted this so bad.

With one last stroke of his hand against the curve of Achilles’ ass, Patroclus held himself and pushed into Achilles, just the head of his dick.

Achilles exhaled hard.

“Alright?” Patroclus asked. He was determined to make Achilles’ first time the best first time possible.

“Yeah, just wait a minute.” Achilles shifted, relaxing as he spoke. When he was ready, he pushed back himself, taking more of Patroclus into him. “Oh. That’s…Patroclus. I feel you.”

“I know. I feel you too. You’re doing perfect.”

With Achilles so receptive, it didn’t take long for Patroclus to get all the way inside. Once he was fully seated, he wrapped his arms around Achilles chest and held on tightly. Achilles let his elegant fingers wrap around Patroclus’ wrists and squeezed back.

The heat and the pressure were overwhelming. Patroclus rolled his hips, making small, gentle thrusts into Achilles. Achilles pressed his ass back into Patroclus’ hips, encouraging him.

Patroclus was never going to last long, not the first time. He held off for as long as he could, but all too soon he was coming too, his face buried in the hair that covered the nape of Achilles’ neck.

They lay like that for a few minutes, breathing. The first time Patroclus tried to back away, Achilles hands shot backwards, gripping Patroclus by the hips. “Don’t move yet,” he said.

“I know,” said Patroclus. “But I have to.” He pulled out, and it was over.

 

* * *

 

They both fell asleep again after, which was normal behavior for Patroclus but unusual for Achilles. Whether his exhaustion was physical, emotional, or both, Patroclus just felt grateful to have him in his arms a little bit longer.

Eventually, though, nature called. Patroclus extricated himself from Achilles and slipped one of Achilles’ long tunics over his head. The fabric was soft and sapphire blue; it smelled like fabric softener. Forgoing any other clothing, Patroclus shoved his feet in some sandals and walked out of the cabin.

At mid-morning, the day was as gorgeous as the one that had come before it. The spring sun shone brightly in a sky only a few shades lighter than the tunic Patroclus was wearing. A light breeze blew in from the west, cooling his hot skin.

With a contented shrug of his shoulders, Patroclus walked a little way into the forest and relieved himself in a bush. When he finished, he let the tunic fall back into place and turned to face the cabin.

A twig cracking behind him was his only warning.

Acting on instinct, Patroclus ducked, but not fast enough to miss being hit entirely. An acute pressure followed by the sickening grind of metal scraping across bone blossomed across his left shoulder blade. A hot wetness began to drip down his back.

 _I’ve been stabbed_ , Patroclus thought dimly. If he hadn’t ducked, the blade probably would have taken him in the neck. Adrenaline pumped through him, electrifying his nerves and blasting away any immediate pain. Fight or flight was kicking in _._

Patroclus hit the ground rolling and came up quickly, spinning around to face his attacker. If his attacker had been Achilles, he would have been dead already, but his attacker was not Achilles. The man in front of him was completely average in appearance: average weight, height, dark clothing, medium-brown skin, brown hair and eyes. The only things that made him exceptional were the bloody knife he held in his right hand and the determined glint in his eye.

The world seemed to speed up and slow down at the same time. Distance. Distance was important in a knife attack, Patroclus remembered. Don’t panic. Take your time. Don’t expose yourself.

That man lunged. Patroclus blocked with his left forearm, the knife cutting into the fleshy part of his arm, but that gave him an opening to land an open-handed punch to the man’s face. The man retreated a few steps, his nose bloody and broken.

Taking advantage of the man’s distraction, Patroclus turned and ran out of the trees. He opened his mouth to scream for Achilles, but before he could get the name out, he was being tackled to the ground. The fall knocked the wind out Patroclus, who struggled for breath.

The man stabbed him again, this time in the right side. Luckily, because of all he thrashing Patroclus was doing, the knife glanced off a rib, missing the vital organs underneath.

Patroclus threw his elbow back, catching the man in his already injured nose. The man dropped to the side, stunned, which gave Patroclus the space he needed to grab the knife away. With ruthless efficiency, Patroclus threw himself on the man’s legs, plunged the knife into his femoral artery, and jerked the knife back out.

A bright spray of blood proved to Patroclus that he’d hit his mark. It was messy. The man pressed his hands to the wound, frantically trying to stop the flow of blood. But Patroclus was a doctor. He knew there was no stopping a jagged cut across the femoral artery. Within a minute, the man would lose consciousness. In three minutes, the man would be dead.

“Achilles,” Patroclus said. His voice was scratchy and weak. Achilles wouldn’t be able to hear him. He would need to try again. “ _Achilles!_ ”  

This time, his bellow frightened the birds from the trees. He did it again, not taking his eyes off the dying man. “ _Achilles_!” Everything else seemed so quiet.

The cabin door banged open.

“Patroclus?” Achilles voice was loud and filled with concern. “Patroclus, what-”  

Patroclus had been spotted. The sound of Achilles speaking was interrupted by near-silent foot falls thumping across soft, green grass.

“What happened?” Achilles asked, his face dominating Patroclus’ field of vision.

Patroclus met his eyes. “I came out to take a piss. He attacked me. Came from behind, stabbed me in the back. We fought and I…I cut his, his leg. He’s dying. Can you see that? Look at him. He’s dying.” Patroclus nodded toward the man.

Achilles didn’t look. “I already saw,” he said. “Otherwise I’d have killed him myself. Where are you hurt? Show me.”

“Uh…” Patroclus gave his head a little shake. “Back right shoulder, left forearm, and, uh, right side.”

Achilles examined the wounds critically. “Can you feel them yet? Damn, it’s hard to see through all this blood.”

Patroclus shook his head again, this time in the negative. “Not really.”

“You will,” Achilles warned. The cold fury in his voice made him sound like his mother. “Come on, we’ll get you inside. I’ll call for help.”

They walked back to the cabin, Achilles supporting Patroclus with a gentle hand, and Patroclus lay down on the bed. Forget washing the sheets. They would need to buy Chiron new ones.

Achilles threw him a balled-up shirt to press against the wound on his side, the one that was bleeding the most, while Achilles called for help.

When Achilles finished, he knelt next to the bed and took over blood control duties. They stayed silent for a few minutes, with Patroclus staring up at the ceiling and Achilles staring at Patroclus.

“I can tell you’re freaking out about killing that guy,” said Achilles. He wasn’t one for silence. “You shouldn’t freak out. He was trying to kill you. You did the right thing. I’m proud of you.”

When Patroclus didn’t answer, Achilles tried again. “You’re a warrior. You did what warriors do.”

Patroclus turned his face toward the wall, not acknowledging Achilles at all.

“Please don’t…don’t do that,” Achilles said. Patroclus heard him take a ragged breath. “I know you don’t like killing, but this isn’t like Clysonymus, Patroclus. This is nothing like that.”

There’s always some reason why killing is okay, why _this one time_ it’s justified. And maybe this murder was justified. Maybe it’s okay to take someone’s life if they’re trying to take yours. But that’s not why Patroclus was upset.

For a second only, just after Patroclus had pulled the knife out of the man’s leg, he had seen a something. A half-remembered dream.

He’d seen a feral version of himself crouched over the man’s neck, mouth dripping black blood and smiling.  


	8. odysseus

Patroclus healed with interminable slowness. The entire situation was déjà vu inverted; this time it was Patroclus convalescing from a forest-bound assassination attempt while Achilles hovered nearby. He reminded Patroclus of a hummingbird, shimmering as he did with kaleidoscopic energy.

But then there was the anger.

What had before lain banked in the core of Achilles, glimpsed only in fits and starts, now lay directly on the surface. Achilles twisted and spun in his anger. He breathed his anger, ate his anger, bathed in it. Anger animated his limbs, shone from his eyes, painted his skin. He was incandescent with it, and Patroclus had no idea what to do.

This wasn’t like the time Achilles had beaten that kid in the _agora_. This time, Achilles would not be talked down with figs and a disappointed shake of the head. This time, blood was required, and Achilles wasn’t going to rest until he got it.

As a result, Patroclus spent a good amount of his recovery oscillating between sickening fear and profound sadness. He didn’t know which was worse; both states left him feeling sweaty and useless, and they definitely left him depressed. Achilles noticed, of course – he kept an oppressively close eye on Patroclus in the week after the attack – but he attributed Patroclus’ moods to shock over the attack itself.

Patroclus didn’t correct him. Letting Achilles think as he would was easier than explaining that he wasn’t afraid of dying so much as he was afraid on behalf of Achilles.

Afraid that Achilles would go too far.

Afraid that Achilles would sacrifice the best parts himself for what he saw as a noble cause, that he would trade away his sweetness to play the hero.

Afraid that Achilles was what Briseis said he was and that Patroclus had simply been too swept away to see things as they really were. Feelings blinded people all the time, after all, people smarter and better than Patroclus. He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he was the exception.

And it wasn’t that Patroclus didn’t understand what Achilles was feeling. He wasn’t immune to that kind of anger. He’d felt it the day he’d killed Clysonymus.

That scared him too.

Achilles, of course, would hear none of it.

“I can’t believe they haven’t found anything yet,” said Achilles. Morning light streamed through the room’s windows. Patroclus let his eyes drift toward them. He’d heard Achilles go on the same rant a hundred times already. “It’s been almost a week. They should know something by now.”

The pillows against Patroclus’ back were soft, but he winced anyway as he sat up straighter. His wounds were relatively superficial, mostly cuts that had glanced off bone. Nothing vital was punctured, and the wounds looked worse than they’d ended up being. That didn’t mean they didn’t hurt like hell though, especially the one across his ribs. That one pulled every time he moved.

“They do know something,” Patroclus said, annoyed. “They know it was the same people who tried to kill you. That means it has to be someone who has access to your schedule. That’s not nothing.”

“No, it is nothing,” Achilles returned, voice dark and full of violent promise. “It’s nothing until my hands are around the neck of the dead man who dared lay a finger on you.”

Patroclus shook his head, tired already in spite of the early hour. He could not have this conversation again. “They tried to kill you too.”

Achilles ignored him. He was sitting in a chair stationed next to Patroclus’ bed, his knees bouncing up and down as he pushed the balls of his feet against the floor. “They wanted to take you from me. Unacceptable. Lessons need to be learned. I will not rest until I do this, Patroclus. I can’t.”

Patroclus closed his eyes.

Achilles was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, a vague tendril of hesitancy had entered his voice. Most people wouldn’t have known it for what it was: vulnerability. “If I can’t do this, what is the point of me?”

Dismayed, Patroclus watched as Achilles bowed his head, hands clasped tightly before his chin. The pose was reminiscent of a supplicant before the altar; it made Patroclus uncomfortable in ways he couldn’t name. Perhaps the feeling was sparked by something his mother used to say, back before she died: we fall in love in the same way we kneel and pray. What is to say we are not doing one when we think we are doing the other?

“Look, your mother’s doing everything she can,” said Patroclus. Thetis had visited the day after the incident, her face nearly as terrible as Achilles’. She’d promised to channel a good deal of her resources into the investigation, and Patroclus had no reason to believe she wasn’t sincere. While he wouldn’t put it past her to make an attempt on his life, she would never do anything to put Achilles in danger. Thetis was nothing if not ferocious in her love for her child. “Have patience.”

Too bad patience wasn’t really Achilles’ thing.

A knock at the door brought the conversation to a halt. Patroclus relaxed, anticipating a bit of time to rest. No one ever came to see him. Achilles was always the desired object. Then the visitor ducked his head around the door and all Patroclus’ muscles tensed anew.

It was Odysseus.

Patroclus wasn’t sure if he’d ever met a person he genuinely did not like. His father, maybe. Thetis was a contender. But even if they were unpleasant, he could at least understand where they were coming from. Odysseus, however…it wasn’t that Patroclus didn’t like him per se. He just couldn’t _figure him out_.

Odysseus was clever. Odysseus had a sharp tongue. Odysseus was a wicked fighter.

Odysseus was a total enigma, and it set Patroclus’ teeth on edge.

He was also the closest thing to a friend Achilles had ever had. They’d grown up together in Peleus’ palace back in Greece. They’d fought together in the campaign for Anatolia. It was during the campaign, in fact, when Odysseus had made a name for himself in his own right.

Achilles trusted him. Patroclus wasn’t so sure.

Odysseus nodded at Patroclus before addressing Achilles. “The Queen wants to see you.”

Achilles scowled, his fine features pulling inward. “Is this about the Thrace thing? I already told her I don’t want to hear it. I’m busy.”

Patroclus looked from Achilles to Odysseus and back.

Odysseus raised an eyebrow at Patroclus, a small smile flitting across his face. “Then cancel your plans. This is about your boy here and your own royal self. The Queen has news.”

The speed at which Achilles gained his feet was unreal. He crossed the room and gripped Odysseus’ forearm. Patroclus fancied he could feel the wind of the movement brush across his face.

“News I’ll like?” Achilles asked.

Odysseus dipped his chin. “Everything your heart desires.”

Achilles twisted his upper body to face Patroclus, raw satisfaction bleeding from his eyes. “You were right. Like always.”

Patroclus flicked his hand toward the door. What else could he do? Achilles’ mind was already on the battlefield. “Go. You can tell me everything later. Just come to me before you do anything crazy, alright?”

“Whatever you say.” Achilles smiled grimly before turning to clap Odysseus on the shoulder. “Odysseus.”

“My Prince.”

With one last lingering look at Patroclus, Achilles bound out of the room, his long braid whipping behind him. Odysseus and Patroclus remained where they were, both staring at the open door.

Odysseus brushed calloused fingers against his dark beard. His expression had turned thoughtful in the wake of Achilles’ departure. “He’s been in quite the mood since you got knifed, Pat. Like he hasn’t been since the war.”

“Don’t call me that.” Patroclus tried to keep his tone mild, but he wasn’t entirely successful. Odysseus turned toward him, dark eyes sharp, one side of his mouth curving into an infuriating smile.

“Just making an observation,” said Odysseus. He, of course, was perfectly calm. “I care about Achilles. It makes me wonder why he’s so worked up. Over you.” He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and crossed his legs at the angles, the very picture of nonchalance. Damn him. “Why do you think that is?”

“We’re _therapon_. What do _you_ think?” Patroclus responded defensively.

Odysseus raised his eyebrows and gave Patroclus a look that clearly communicated the stupidity of the question. With efficient movements, he stuck his head out the door, looked both ways, and then retreated back into the room, shutting the door behind him.

“Nothing the Queen isn’t thinking,” said Odysseus lightly.

The air seemed thicker than it had a moment before. “What?”

“You shouldn’t have let him talk you into it,” Odysseus continued. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I used to wonder why Achilles never asked me to be his _therapon_. I guess I have my answer. But when he chose you, I figured, hey, not bad. You seemed like someone who understood him. Took him on his own terms.”

Deny, deny, deny. “What are you talking about?”

Odysseus narrowed his sharp eyes. They glittered darkly in the morning light. “In a way, I’m talking about ethics. I’ve seen enough of the world to know they’re not, strictly speaking, necessary. Sometimes, in fact, they’re a downright hindrance. Whatever his faults, Achilles is lucky to have been spared your particular brand of slave morality-"

"Slave morality!" Patroclus interrupted.

"It makes his life easier." Every word Odysseus said was weighty; each syllable dripped meaning. "It makes it possible for him to do what he must. You think he’s unhappy now? Think of how unhappy he’ll be if you shackle him to a bad conscience. You’re afraid of the Queen. That’s smart. But you’ve known her, what, six months? I’ve known her for twenty years. She’ll do anything to keep that boy from slipping through her fingers, and she won’t feel guilty about it. I guarantee you that. His legacy and hers are the same thing.”

 _No one will ever find your ashes_. The words resonated through his memory, the fear still fresh in his mind.  

“It’s not like I’m stealing him,” said Patroclus defensively. “I’ll be fine.”

“If it were only you at risk we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” said Odysseus. “But yours isn’t the only life she’ll ruin. As has been well established, the Pelides are not a family that concerns itself with collateral damage. That’s what makes them such effective rulers. I include our good Prince in that, by the way. He’s glorious, a real-life monster, and I love him for that. You, however, love him in spite of it.”

Taken aback, Patroclus was silent for a long moment. “He’s a good person,” Patroclus finally said. “There are very few things I know for sure, but that’s one of them. Achilles is a good person.”

“So?” Odysseus let his arms fall to his sides. His eyes never left Patroclus’ face. “With an adept manipulator pulling the strings, with the right motivation…even you, Saint Patroclus, would find yourself doing things you’d never imagined. And Achilles is not a saint.”

Patroclus squared his shoulders as best he could while lying on a pile of pillows. “Whose side are you on?”

The smile bloomed again on Odysseus’ face like it had never left. “I’m just a concerned citizen of Greece. I do as duty and honor require.”


	9. menelaus

Patroclus waited anxiously for Achilles to return in the wake of Odysseus’ visit. If Odysseus was to be believed – and Patroclus wasn’t willing to take the chance that he wasn’t – then he and Achilles had much to discuss.

Patroclus chewed his lip. Pain lingered in the cuts he’d received from the would-be assassin, but it wasn’t anything physical that disturbed him now. Ever since he’d met Achilles, the world felt like it was going faster and faster. Patroclus was haunted by the sickening feeling that he was careening downhill on a bike with no brakes. His control was slipping away and stopping was no longer an option.  

Nothing, not even Achilles, could make that careening feeling go way – in fact, seeing Achilles usually made the feeling worse – but Achilles’ presence also made that feeling easier to face. When Achilles was around the uncertainty seemed worthwhile.

At the moment, Patroclus desperately wanted to feel like all of this was worthwhile. He settled back into his cushions, pulled out a bundle of printed out journal articles, and pretended to read while he waited for Achilles to return.

And he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

He waited until his heart finally slowed to its regular rhythm, the adrenaline from his conversation with Odysseus leaching out of him in jagged waves. He waited until exhaustion, the result of his injury and the emotions of the day, dragged him down into the mattress. He waited through two meals, both brought to him by the cheerful old day nurse in charge of his care. He waited as the sun disappeared behind the buildings of Troy and darkness fell across his he bedroom.

Where was Achilles?

Patroclus ran his finger over the edge of his phone and wondered if it would be too much to call Achilles again. Ten times over the course of twelve hours averaged out to less than one call per hour. That wasn’t too bad.

His finger hovered over Achilles’ name and then pressed down. He used his uninjured arm to bring the phone up to his ear. A heavy frown creased his face as the call went straight to voicemail. Again.

_You’ve reached Pelides. This is my personal phone. If you’re calling about business, I will personally hunt you down and ask how you got this number. Yes, ‘ask’ is a euphemism._

Snakes of worry writhed inside Patroclus, though a fair amount of anger floated around in there as well. He’d thought Achilles was getting better about doing as he pleased, heedless of the feelings of others, and asking forgiveness later.

They were going to have strong words when Achilles returned.

Patroclus put his phone on the bedside table, the volume turned all the way up. He sighed and pushed the button to release more pain meds into his IV. There was nothing for it. He would try again in the morning and hope that Achilles wouldn’t do anything rash during the night.

When Patroclus woke the next morning, he felt marginally better than he had the day before. After taking stock of his body, the first thing he did was check his phone. Nothing. The second thing he did was call Achilles again. Nothing.

He set his phone back on the bedside table with more force than was strictly necessary.

The new day passed in much the same manner as the previous, with lots of frustration and very little to keep him occupied. His nurse took him on a walk through the Palace gardens around mid-morning. At midday he ate lunch alone in his room, though he spent most of the meal scooping up spoonfuls of lentil soup before letting the liquid plop back into the bowl. When he tired of playing with his food, he pulled the journal articles out again and flipped through those.

Boredom chased with worry and frustration made him listless. He threw his head back to look at the smooth white ceiling. Perhaps it was a mistake to have so few people in his life. Achilles and Briseis were all he had, really, and they couldn’t be in the same room with each other. He was friendly with some of the other residents at the hospital, but he never saw them outside of work.

Briseis was always telling him to meet other people, to stop letting his world revolve around Achilles. As he lay in bed with nothing better to do than wait for Achilles to remember him, he could definitely see her point. This was getting ridiculous.

It was when he was reaching for his phone, ready to call Briseis and ask her to come to the Palace, that his phone finally rang. He snatched it up, brows furrowing as he saw the screen. Unknown number. “Hello?”

“Patroclus.” Odysseus’ rich baritone flooded through the receiver. “You need to get to the Senate building. Right now.” The sound of furious voices nearly drowned him out.

Patroclus threw off his blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. A glance at the clock told him it was almost two in the afternoon. “Achilles?”

“Yes,” said Odysseus. He had to shout to be heard over the people around him. “He’s been all over the city since yesterday trying to get a name out of the lead Thetis gave him. Well, he just got one, and he’s about to do something stupid. I’m trying to talk him out of it, but he’s so bloody stubborn.”

This was exactly the scenario Patroclus had been dreading. Achilles had promised him not to do this! He’d promised to talk things over with Patroclus first. His rage must be great indeed, if it made him break a promise. At least, Patroclus thought Achilles would never knowingly break a promise. Achilles never lied. 

“Yeah,” agreed Patroclus. He pulled out his IV as he spoke, using his blanket to catch the blood that welled in its wake. Thank goodness he had medical training. “What’s the name?”  

Odysseus waited a few seconds before answering. “Menelaus. It was Menelaus.”

Now it was Patroclus’ turn to pause. Menelaus was a native Greek, one of those that Achilles had fought with during the Trojan War. He was abrasive, arrogant, and powerful. He was also the brother of Agamemnon, a personal friend of King Peleus, and married to Helen, the daughter of the King of Thrace.

Patroclus found the man extremely distasteful. Achilles and Odysseus hated him.

The feeling must be mutual. Why else would Menelaus waste his time on a nobody like Patroclus? What did he have to gain?

“Achilles wants to kill him?” Patroclus asked roughly as he began to dress. The cotton shirt he slipped over his bandages was thin enough not to hurt.

“Achilles _will_ kill him, and in broad daylight on the steps of the Senate. Unless you get here and talk some sense into him.”

Patroclus jammed his feet into a pair of shoes. The Senate building was right next to the Palace, just on the other side of the rose garden. Even with his injuries slowing him down, he could be there in less than five minutes.

“I’m on my way,” he said. “But why do you want me stop him? After everything you said yesterday...”

“I also said this wasn’t just about you,” Odysseus snapped back. Patroclus strained to hear him. “Or me, for that matter. There’s more at stake here than you know.”

Patroclus closed his eyes as he shrugged into his jacket. Odysseus the enigma. Nothing could ever be straightforward with him. He and Achilles were night and day. “What do you mean? 

“Just get out here,” Odysseus said, voice tight. On that ominous note, Odysseus ended the call.  

There was no time to waste. Patroclus threw open his door and looked at the guard standing on the opposite side of the hallway. Achilles had ordered extra security for him in the wake of the assassination attempt. “I’m going outside. You will accompany me.”

Inviting the guard along seemed the quickest way to do this. Without waiting for an answer, Patroclus set off at a brisk walk toward the main staircase. He heard the guard fall in behind him.

Patroclus passed five more guards on his path down the stairs and out of the Palace, his own guard trailing close behind him. His wounds throbbed dully.

He burst out of the Palace and turned right toward the Senate building. As soon as he turned the corner, he jerked back, assaulted by frantic waves of sound. A mob was already forming on the broad steps of the Senate. Raucous cheers and frightened jeers rose and fell among the crowd.

The crowd was churning in circles around a hollow center, the eye of the storm. In the eye, Achilles stood tall, his hair in a tangled snarl down his back. His eyes, usually so full of humor and warmth, held nothing but rage. No thought, no light. Only fury and death.

The afternoon sun glinted off the knife he held in his right hand.

At his feet knelt Menelaus. Blood ran down Menelaus’ face from what had to be a broken nose. The red was bright against the crisp white of Menelaus’ shirt, brighter even than the rusty bronze of Menelaus’ hair.

Patroclus began to run. He still had to get through the rose garden and through the crowd if he wanted to stop Achilles. The thought lodged sharply in Patroclus’ brain, spurring him to run faster. Forget his injuries. He had to stop Achilles.

 _There’s more at stake here than you know._ Odysseus’s words cut through him, down to his darkest self. They mixed with his deepest fears about Achilles, about himself, and launched outwards again, gaining urgency.

Nothing had ever been so important. He had to stop Achilles. _He had to stop Achilles._

The guard kept up with him easily. It occurred to Patroclus that he didn’t know the man’s name. He would have to ask later.

In the meantime, Achilles had started the show.

“HOW DARE YOU!” Achilles roared. The mob roared with him, ecstatic. This was their prince. Their merciless, monstrous prince. “HOW DARE YOU TRY TO TAKE HIM FROM ME!”

Patroclus was at the fringes of the crowd now, but this wasn’t like the _agora_. Achilles didn’t know he was present this time; he had no real reason to hold back. Patroclus was injured too, and late to the scene. He couldn’t push through the crowd. The bodies were packed too tightly, and he was weak.

Patroclus grabbed the guard by the shoulder. “Help me!” he shouted into the guard’s ear. “Make a path.”

The guard nodded and flung himself at the edge of the crowd, making liberal use of his elbows to clear a path to the front. Patroclus followed in his wake. He would definitely need to find out who this guard was when he had the time.

In the center, Menelaus was trying to respond. Patroclus could barely hear him over all the noise. “No! My Prince, please. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I beg you, stop this!”

Another voice floated over the crowd. Patroclus recognized it as Odysseus’, though he could not see him. “Achilles, this is insane! We’re in public, you fool. What would Patroclus think?”

Patroclus swallowed at the sound of his name and pressed closer to the guard. He was gaining ground. He was almost there. Perhaps Achilles could hear him now, if he shouted. “Achilles! Achilles, stop!”

Achilles didn’t turn. He couldn’t hear Patroclus yet. Instead, he scoffed at Odysseus. “What would Patroclus think? Patroclus was _stabbed repeatedly_. He could have died. He could have _left me_ because this _waste of space-_ ” Achilles paused long enough to kick Menelaus in the stomach. Menelaus hunched over, his hands clutching at his gut. “-decided to commit treason. And you would have me let his crime go unpunished? Menelaus will serve as an _example_ to all those who would challenge me and mine!”

Achilles turned the knife over in his hand. His intent was clear.

Patroclus screamed as loud as he could, but Achilles could not hear. He was not listening.

Odysseus came into Patroclus’ line of sight. His hands were up, palms forward. His expression was determined, but Patroclus could tell he was frightened.

“You can’t kill him, Achilles,” said Odysseus. “We don’t know for sure he did it! Even if he did, you know who he is. You know the connections he has with Thrace-”

Achilles roared right over the top of Odysseus. “I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT THRACE!” He was quivering where he stood.

“Well, you damn well should!” Odysseus shouted back as he threw up his hands. Then he said something Patroclus couldn’t make out, dropped his hands, and stepped back.

Oh, no. Odysseus was giving up.

Patroclus was almost there. He was almost-

“ACHILLES!”

The knife moved too fast for Patroclus’ eyes to follow. One moment, Menelaus was kneeling on the ground, hunched over. The next, he was sprawled across the steps, his head lower than his heart, his life’s blood flowing downhill.

When Patroclus looked at the body again, it was not Menelaus lying there. It was Clysonymus.

The crowd went wild. Howls of approbation mixed with screams of terror in a dizzying cacophony of bloodlust and madness. Patroclus pressed the heels of his hands over his ears as hard as he could. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t.

But it was. Achilles strutted over Menelaus’ body, head held high. He was crimson and gold. He was a vengeful god, post-sacrifice. The crowd worshipped at his feet, adored him. It was everything Achilles talked about. For this one, brief moment, the people of Troy truly loved him. And Patroclus was sure people would remember what happened for many years to come.

Add another entry to the history books for Achilles Pelides.  

The guard finally pulled Patroclus out of the crowd and into the center of the mob. Patroclus didn’t scream. He didn’t try to get Achilles’ attention. It was too late.

Odysseus, however, saw him. He shrugged tiredly where he stood at the other side of the circle, his arms crossed over his chest. He mouthed, _I tried_.

Patroclus nodded numbly in reply. Beside him, the young guard was staring at the blood as it dripped down the steps. Patroclus grabbed his wrist. “What’s your name?” he asked.

The guard shifted his gaze from the blood to Patroclus. He was young, and his dark brown eyes were wide. “Linus.”

“Linus,” Patroclus repeated. “I can’t stay here. We have to go.”

 Linus nodded in the same numb way Patroclus had and turned back to the crowd. Patroclus turned to follow.

Then Achilles spotted him.

“Patroclus!”

Patroclus ignored Achilles as he tried desperately to get to the anonymous safety of the crowd. Once again, he didn’t make it.

“Patroclus.” This time, his name was accompanied by Achilles’ hand on his arm. “What are you doing out here? It’s not safe.”

Patroclus gritted his teeth and faced Achilles. The crowd was backing up, too afraid of Achilles to remain close. A small pocket of space opened up around the two of them. Achilles didn’t seem to notice.

“Are you alright?” Achilles asked anxiously.

“You promised me,” said Patroclus. He sounded tired and dull. “You promised to talk to me before you did anything. You promised.”

“I…oh, Patroclus, I forgot,” said Achilles. He sounded pained. Pained and suddenly scared, which was nonsense. “I spoke with my mother and, I don’t know. I just forgot everything but protecting you. I should have talked to you first. I’m sorry.”

“You just murdered Menelaus,” said Patroclus. He watched as a line of blood traced itself down Achilles’ neck. “I saw you.”

“No. Not murder. _Justice_. He tried to have you killed! What was I supposed to do?” Achilles’ beautiful face contorted with worry. “You shouldn’t have come here. You’re bleeding.” He touched a graceful finger just below the cut on Patroclus’ forearm where Patroclus’ blood had seeped through his jacket. “Here. I’ll take you back to the room, get that looked at.”

Patroclus backed away. “How can you be so…I don’t understand you.”

Achilles blinked quickly and looked down at his hands. He was still holding the knife in his left hand. “Please don’t say that.” He wiped the knife clean on his tunic and returned it to its unseen holster. “We can talk about it later, if you want. You can yell at me all night. I’ll do whatever you say. Just go back inside. Please.”

“Fine,” Patroclus relented. Some of the tension drained from Achilles’ shoulders, and he lifted his hand to take Patroclus’ hand. Patroclus shied away. He wasn’t ready yet. “Linus will take me.” He looked over his shoulder at Linus who stood at the edge of the crowd.

“But-”

“No, Achilles. I’ll be fine. I’ll call you later.”

Patroclus looked again at Menelaus’ body, and then walked away, careful not to let his eyes stray toward Achilles. If he saw hurt in Achilles’ eyes, he would give in. He would stay and forgive and this whole day would fall away into Achilles’ dark past, another gruesome event that neither of them spoke about.

He couldn’t do that. Not this time. Achilles had a problem. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, but it was real. Patroclus needed time to figure out what to do about it.  

The crowd was much easier to get through in the aftermath.


	10. decisions

The night was soft, its edges sharpened only by the lingering chill of late spring. Golden light washed from the Palace’s many windows, splashing and pooling on the dark ground. Ashy clouds drifted to and fro overhead, alternately obscuring and revealing a stark panoply of stars. The sounds of the city, full and alive, drifted past on the same breeze that brought the smell of lavender from the flower garden. On this night, Troy was radiant. Undeniably pleasing.

A complete deception.

Patroclus regarded the whole scene with suspicion. Beauty was an abstraction. It concealed and obscured. The very qualities that made beauty seductive also made it dangerous. So as beautiful as the night was, Patroclus could not afford to take it at face value.

He twisted around and peered into the velvety shadows surrounding the door he’d just walked through.

Briseis plucked at the sleeve of his sweater, drawing his attention back to her. “Are you ready to go?” she asked.

Not a trace of satisfaction crossed her face or colored her voice. Patroclus loved her for that.

“Why don’t you get in first?” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

Briseis glanced at the door, her face drawing inward. The gentle breeze swept bits of dark hair across her cheeks. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

Patroclus nodded absently, his attention drifting back to the shadows around the door. “I won’t,” he said.

The sound of the car door opening and closing behind him registered dimly. He took a deep breath. The air was sweet. “I can’t see you, but I know you’re there,” Patroclus said to the darkness. “You may as well come out.”

There was a brief pause. Then Achilles melted out of the shadows, gaining shape and substance as he stepped under the driveway’s lights. This was the first time Patroclus had seen him in person since Achilles had killed Menelaus. Six days. They’d hadn’t gone that long without each other since they’d met. Achilles was wearing a long-sleeved tunic and leggings, all in uninterrupted black. The top half of his hair was drawn back and twisted into an intricate braid while the rest of his hair fell freely down his back.

Patroclus could feel his forehead wrinkle as he took in Achilles. Achilles was dressed for a funeral. “I’m not dead.”

“You’re not,” Achilles agreed mildly.

Patroclus swallowed down his concern. “You’re not dead either,” he said firmly.

Achilles shrugged.

Patroclus clenched his jaw. Achilles was doing this on purpose. He was trying to manipulate Patroclus into staying. It wasn’t going to work.

“This is temporary,” Patroclus said. He strove to be calm. “I’m staying with Briseis for a few weeks. That’s it.”

“You’re not leaving me?”

“No.”

Achilles clenched his hands into fists. “This is killing me.”

“I’m sorry.” Patroclus ached with the implicit accusation. _This is killing me._ You’re _killing me._

“Then why are you doing this?” Achilles held his hands out, palms up. “I don’t understand. You won’t talk to me. I told you I’d do whatever you said, and I will. Just tell me what to do.”

The words hung in the air for a long moment.

“And what if I don’t know what to tell you?” Patroclus finally said. “I’m not mad at you. I’m really not. I don’t want you to be alone. But what you did was not okay, Achilles. Not to me. I need some time away. I don’t know what else to do.”

Achilles dropped his arms to his sides. He looked confused. Like a child. “You’re scaring me.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know,” said Achilles, desperate.

Patroclus couldn’t let himself be swayed. He gathered himself carefully. His injuries were healed enough for him to take care of himself, but his muscles still ached where they were knitting themselves together. His mad sprint through the mob hadn’t done him any favors. “I have to go. Send for me if there’s an emergency.”

Patroclus tried to smile for Achilles and failed.

Achilles took a quick step forward, one hand reaching in Patroclus’ direction. “Wait.”

Patroclus shook his head. “I can’t be the kind of person who follows you blindly. I’ll do whatever I can for you, but I can’t be that person.” He turned toward the car. “I’ll see you soon, Achilles. Please get some sleep.”

The car belonged to the Pelides family. The windows were tinted completely black. He couldn’t see the driver. He couldn’t see whether Briseis was watching them or not.

“Please don’t go.”

Patroclus took a step toward the car.

“Patroclus, please.”

Another step. It tore up his heart to hurt Achilles, but he had to respect himself. He refused to become that other Patroclus, the one he saw in his dreams. The one he saw in his most fearful moments. The one with blood dripping from its mouth, blood the same color as the train car.

At the same time, he didn’t want Achilles to harden any more than he already had. Achilles had a problem, but he wasn’t lost yet. Beauty lied, and ugliness did too. Both put masks of coherence on top of decidedly incoherent beings. To take the complicated, contradictory, spinning mess of flows and lines that make up a person and reduce them to the word monster...it couldn’t be done. Many of the shifting parts of Achilles had congealed around wrath and pride, but other parts escaped. Patroclus saw those rebel parts every time Achilles kissed him, every time Achilles laughed. He saw them every time Achilles played music for him.

No monster was only a monster. Things escaped. Achilles could escape. But Patroclus couldn’t help if he didn’t escape first.

He wrapped his fingers around the door handle.

Then Achilles said the one thing that would make Patroclus hesitate. He should have known Achilles wouldn’t let him go without a fight. As Achilles was fond of repeating, he was, first and foremost, a fighter.  

“Patroclus. I’m going to war.”

It’s strange how thoughts can race and freeze at the same time. Patroclus stared down at his hand, unsure he’d heard Achilles correctly. “What?”

“With Thrace,” Achilles said softly. Patroclus turned his head to look at him. Achilles had the tense look of a man preparing for a massive blow. “Tyndareus hasn’t officially declared yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“Because you killed Menelaus?”

“Yes,” said Achilles. “Kind of. Things have been tense for a while. Menelaus was the last straw.”

Ah. So that’s what Odysseus had meant. _If it were only you at risk we wouldn’t be having this conversation._ “You knew that before, didn’t you? That if you killed Menelaus you’d be starting a war.”

Achilles inclined his head. “Mother wants me on the frontlines. It’s my place.”

It was too difficult to look at him. Achilles hadn’t had any real evidence that Menelaus had done anything. Just the word of some guy Thetis had tracked down. That, and rage.

Patroclus turned back to his hand. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I knew what you’d think,” said Achilles. “But I want you to come with me. To help me. Help me be the kind of person you want me to be. You can’t help me if you leave.”

Bitterness flooded Patroclus’ mouth. Subtlety was not in Achilles’ nature, and he wasn’t being subtle now. His manipulation was as heavy-handed as it was persuasive.   

“You could refuse to fight,” Patroclus said sharply.  

Achilles paused for a moment before he answered. “You know I can’t. I won’t. But when you’re around, when you’re close, it’s...easier...to hold back. Come with me, Patroclus. Then we can both be remembered. You deserve to be remembered.”

Some things always escaped. Some things didn’t. Achilles was enmeshed in a frightening constellation of power that he did not control. A war would entangle him further. Make it more difficult - impossible? - for him to extricate himself from his family’s machinations.

“I need...I need to think about it,” Patroclus stuttered. He couldn’t be there anymore, in the soft night air. “I need time. To decide. And space. I’ll tell you when I decide.” He pulled open the door and got in the car.

Briseis was waiting inside, her arms already open.

 

* * *

 

Patroclus and Briseis sat side by side at her kitchen table.

They hadn’t spoken the night before. Wrung out and aching, Patroclus hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open. Linus - who Patroclus had requested as his permanent bodyguard in the wake of the Menelaus incident - had had to help Briseis support him as he climbed the two flights of creaking stairs to her apartment. Once inside, he’d managed to get as far as taking off his shoes before collapsing on Briseis’ bed. She’d taken the couch.

Now, the morning after, the enormity of the situation left Patroclus numb. The kitchen was bright, illuminated by the clean sunlight coming in through the window over the sink. The room smelled like coffee and buttered toast. Patroclus closed his eyes and leaned into Briseis. Her steady breathing was a comfort.

“This sucks,” he said eventually. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He felt Briseis nod. “Yeah,” she agreed. “It does.”

With a sigh and a frown, Patroclus opened his eyes. He picked up one of the pieces of toast resting on his plate and took a bite.

“Thanks,” he said, swallowing the bread down.

Briseis put her coffee cup on the table. “For what?”

“For not telling me how stupid I am.”

“You’re not stupid,” Briseis said. The way her shoulders were hunched told Patroclus that she was choosing her words carefully. “You’re being yourself.” She pressed the fingers of her left hand against her left eye briefly, and then moved her hand down to rest under her chin. “It’s one of the things I like best about you. You think everyone deserves to be cared about. Which they do. In theory.”

Patroclus picked up the toast and put it down again. He was just one person, and a fairly insignificant person at that. Ending the war with Thrace before it started wasn’t an option. That left two choices: go with Achilles or stay behind. Abandon Achilles - and countless others - to his fate, or go back to war and participate in the destruction himself. Neither option was appealing. “What should I do?”

A group of kids on their way to school walked under the window. They spoke loudly and exuberantly.  

Briseis ignored them. “It’s not your responsibility to be his conscience,” she said softly. “He’s fully grown. He can’t rely on you to redeem him, or whatever it is he wants from you.”

Patroclus bit his lip. What had Odysseus said to him? Something about forcing Achilles to live by his slave morality?

Briseis nudged his shoulder. “I don’t want to say what I’ve already said a hundred times,” she continued. “He just takes so much from you, and he doesn’t see it because he thinks you’re perfect. But you’re changing, and we both know it’s not all for the better. I don’t think you like everything about what you’re becoming.”

That was true. Patroclus couldn’t imagine his life without Achilles anymore. But he was also excusing behavior he never would have excused before, and all because it was Achilles.

Why couldn’t anything be easy?

“I know you love him,” Briseis said, taking in Patroclus’ silence. “I know he makes you happy in ways I don’t understand. But he’s also making you very unhappy in ways I understand all too well. It’s not on you to save him and it’s not on you to save Thrace. You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders if you don’t want.”  

She was right. How much that mattered was another question. Because Odysseus was right. This wasn’t just about the two of them.

"Besides," she said. "You know what's going to happen in this war. You know what he'll do. Do you really want a front row seat?"

Patroclus closed his eyes again. That was the entire point. If Patroclus didn’t rein in Achilles, no one would.

 

* * *

 

In spite of his injunction that he be given time and space, Patroclus still half expected Achilles to show up at Briseis’ door. True to his word, however, Achilles never appeared. He was waiting for Patroclus to contact him. Waiting for an answer.

In the meantime, Briseis took care of him. She made him lentil soup with thick slices of steaming bread on the side. She brought him hot cups of tea in bed when his shoulder ached too much for him to move around comfortably. She laid in bed with him at night until he fell asleep.

It felt nice to be on the receiving end of some fuss for once. Achilles focused much of his attention on Patroclus and he could fret with the best of them, but he didn’t care for Patroclus per se; Patroclus was usually the one who took care of Achilles. Patroclus was the one who made sure Achilles got his scrapes and strains seen to, who saw to it that Achilles took breaks from his training to play music. As much as Patroclus missed Achilles, in some ways staying with Briseis was a relief.

But Briseis couldn’t be with him all the time. So, while Briseis worked during the day, Linus kept Patroclus company. Linus wasn’t bad, actually. He was older than Patroclus had first assumed - about Achilles’ age - and they had a lot in common. They both liked a good game of FIFA, for example.

“Oi! How are you so good at this?” complained Patroclus. Linus had just scored on him. Again.

“Practice,” said Linus. “I’m a beast on the fake football pitch.” Smiling, he sat back to watch a virtual Diego Costa celebrate his goal. “And you don’t get to use your arm as an excuse for losing. It’s been over a week since you left the Palace. You’re nearly healed.”

Patroclus laughed softly. Linus was a great distraction. He never brought up Achilles or what had happened at the Senate. That was a huge point in his favor. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Damn right,” Linus said. He set his control on the table and stood, stretching his arms toward the ceiling as he did so. Since he’d been reassigned to Patroclus’ personal security team he’d started wearing suits instead of his military kit. As he stretched, the jacket of his suit rode up, revealing the gun at his hip. Patroclus glanced at the gun before looking away quickly.

Linus noticed. His eyes softened.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but before he could a knock sounded at the door. Linus’ mouth snapped shut. He straightened his jacket as he went to answer the door. The woman on the other side murmured something to Linus that Patroclus couldn’t make out.

When the woman was finished talking, Linus held the door mostly closed and turned to Patroclus. “Someone’s here to see you. If you’re feeling up to it.”

Patroclus’ spine stiffened and his stomach churned. “Achilles?”

“No,” said Linus. “It’s Her Highness.”

Not Achilles. It wasn’t Achilles. Disappointment and relief flooded Patroclus, making him weak.

Achilles wasn’t there. It was Her Highness. But that would mean...

Patroclus stiffened anew, scrambling to pull himself into a more dignified position.

A woman’s voice rang out in the hall. “What are you waiting for, soldiers? I’m the Princess of Troy. I don’t need his permission. Let me in.”

To his credit, Linus did not follow her command. He looked back at Patroclus, his eyebrows lifted, waiting for the go ahead.

There was no avoiding this. Patroclus picked at the soft blanket covering his legs and motioned for Linus to open the door.

Deidameia. She walked in with unassailable confidence, her magnificent hair fanning out behind her.

Lips pursed with distaste, Deidameia let her gaze slide slowly across the apartment. Then her eyes found Patroclus.

“We need to talk.”

 


	11. deidameia

They ended up in Briseis’ cramped kitchen, staring at each other across the table. The location felt appropriate; Patroclus had been having a lot of uncomfortable conversations there lately. What was one more?

His awkwardness wasn’t helped by the fact that Patroclus felt particularly inadequate next to Deidameia’s cultivated splendor. Especially now; showering wasn’t an easy thing to do with knife wounds on your arm and back, and Patroclus tended to put it off until he had no other choice. No other choice usually came in the form of either Briseis or Linus refusing to bring him food until he washed his hair, and the last time that had happened was three days ago. Not to mention he was wearing his oldest pair of sweatpants - the dark blue ones with all the little holes on the back of the thighs that he’d been wearing since he started med school - and a t-shirt with grease stains on the hem.

Deidameia, in stark contrast, was a vision in hand-cut silk.  

“So,” she said. She crossed her legs placidly, right over left, and tugged her skirt down a little. “I couldn’t help but notice you’re not at the Palace.”

A rhetorical question. Patroclus looked down at the table, silently wishing for Deidameia to get on with it.

“Would you like to know what he’s been doing since you left?” she asked lightly.

Patroclus’ eyes flitted in her direction before he could stop them. The truth was, he was desperate to know how Achilles was doing. He could have asked Linus to check for him, but that seemed unfair.

Deidameia’s eyebrows arched, her dark eyes flashing. “Nothing,” she said stiffly. “He does nothing.”  

Patroclus’ eyebrows knit together with worry. Deidameia’s lip twitched. “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” she said. “He does the minimum. He trains, prepares for Thrace, speaks to his mother. He eats when he remembers. But other than that...he lays around. Stares at the ceiling. Plucks at that guitar of his. Barely sleeps. Screams at anyone who looks at him sideways. He has a new employee in tears every day. He won’t speak to me at all, won’t come to me.”

She leaned forward, capturing Patroclus’ eyes with her own. “When was the last time you saw Achilles do nothing?” she asked.

Never.

Deidameia read the answer on his face. “Exactly,” she said, leaning back again. “You need to come back.”

Patroclus smoothed his hands down his thighs, surprised. He didn’t know Deidameia well - they’d only met the once, and hardly under ideal circumstances - but he didn’t think she’d want him to come back to the Palace. She had seemed quite...hostile...when they’d last spoken. “You want me to go back?”

One of her shoulders came up in a small shrug. “I’m a practical woman, Patroclus. My husband has a problem. Which means I have a problem. And you can fix him.” She paused for a moment, her eyes turning up to the ceiling. “Well, you can fix this.”

“But...” he trailed off, uncertain how to continue. Apparently, he was going to be inadequate in both appearance and conversation tonight. Talking to Deidameia was as confusing as talking to Odysseus. “You want me to go back to Achilles? Why?”

Deidameia tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at the same time. Patroclus pressed back in his chair. Damn. He’d offended her.

“What must you think of me?” she wondered aloud, voice tight. The frown on her face looked delicate, an origami crane folded downward. “I can only imagine what Achilles has told you, but I assure you, I do not wish him ill. I get frustrated with him at times. Surely you can understand that?”

“I didn’t mean to imply-”   

“Yes, you did.” Deidameia gathered her shining hair and brought it over her right shoulder. The gesture seemed habitual. A nervous tick. “I know what you two are. I knew the second I saw you together, and I’m over it. It’s not like Achilles is my soulmate or anything. I had as little say in this marriage as he did. Less, maybe.”

Patroclus rubbed his hand over his mouth. He didn’t know if that was true, but Deidameia sounded like she believed it. “I’m sorry,” he said.

A heavy silence fell over the both of them. Patroclus took the opportunity to look away, to breathe, to take stock of himself.

Deidameia must have done the same. When she spoke again, she sounded steadier. “Listen,” she said. “I appreciate the situation you’re in. I used to be there myself.”

Patroclus breathed in and out slowly. He didn’t understand. “I’m sorry?”

“They expect you to do all the work, don’t they? Chiron, Odysseus. Even Thetis, in her own myopic way. They ruined him, and now they expect you to keep him from going off the rails.” She shook her head. “They expected that from me once, at the beginning. That role always seems to fall to the wife, the girlfriend. Now it’s fallen on you. Maybe you’ll have more luck than I did. I don’t care so long as Achilles stops being so miserable and fulfills his obligations to me.”

Another unexpected confession. None of this was playing out like Patroclus had imagined. He tried the slow breathing thing again.

“Are you surprised?” Deidameia asked defensively. “I’m not a monster.”

Monsters, monsters everywhere and none of them what they seemed.

“No,” Patroclus said softly. “You’re not.” He cradled his healing arm with his good one, hunching over a little. He hated what he was about to say. After everything Deidameia had just said, it seemed cowardly. “But I don’t know if I can. Go with him. To Thrace.”

Deidameia leveled a flat glare in his direction. “You don’t know?”

“I just...” he tried to remember all the things Briseis had said to him since he’d arrived. The task was impossible under Deidameia’s scrutiny. How could he describe his fears? How could he put into words a train car the color of dried blood, a body, his own dripping smile? How could he say that if he and Achilles went to war together, there was a good chance neither of them would make it out the other side.

But he couldn’t say those things. He didn’t know how. “What if it’s not what’s best for me?” he tried instead. He winced at how lame he sounded.

Deidameia looked at him like he was an idiot. Patroclus was torn between feeling like he was justified - Briseis’ voice was in the back of his head telling him that it wasn’t his responsibility to the save anyone but himself - and feeling like Deidameia was right. He wished Briseis were actually home. She would know how to explain the situation without sounding like a selfish fool.  

“I won’t respond to that,” she finally said. Steel entered her voice and straightened her spine. “You don’t know how lucky you are, Patroclus, and you don’t know how generous I’m being. Stop moping. Get your shit together. Go back where you belong. Maybe you’ll do some good there.”

Patroclus’ mouth fell open. He’d been yelled at recently. Threatened too. But he hadn’t been scolded like this since he was a child. Since his mother was alive.

Deidameia was not messing around.

He could feel himself being persuaded. It didn’t help that half of him had already wanted to go back to Achilles long before Deidameia showed up.

“And what happens when everything falls apart?” he asked. The question was more for himself than Deidameia.

Deidameia closed her eyes and tilted her head up, letting a long breath out through her nose at the same time. She opened her eyes slowly, glancing at the window briefly before turning her gaze back to Patroclus. “Enough with the self-indulgence.” She stood up. “I’ll be waiting in the hall.”

She paused on her way out of the kitchen, just long enough to look him up and down. “You might consider a shower,” she said, and then walked away.

 

* * *

 

After all she’d done for him, Patroclus knew he owed it to Briseis to tell her what he was planning in person. But she wasn’t there, and Deidameia was tapping her foot just outside the door.

Shameful as it was, Patroclus couldn’t help but feel relieved. Dread filled him at the thought of seeing the inevitable disappoint written across Briseis’ face. He wrote her a note instead, one in which he promised to see her soon, and left it on the kitchen table. Then he took a shower, changed into some clean clothes, and went to meet his future.

Anxiety built up inside him as their car cruised fluidly through Troy. May was upon them and the sun shone cheerfully from a deep blue sky. The metal of the city scattered the light in a hundred different directions, making Patroclus grateful the windows were dark. It would be summer soon.

Had he given in too easily? What did it mean that he was even thinking about this as giving in?

And, more immediately, what was he going to say to Achilles?

He reached up with both hands to feel his still-damp hair and attempted to drag his tight curls into some semblance of order. He looked down at himself. He’d put on the kind of clothes he always wore: jeans, tennis shoes, regular old shirt. Was it too plain?

Of all the times to start feeling self-conscious.

His movement drew Deidameia’s attention away from her phone. She put her hand on his elbow, drawing his arm down to his lap. “Stop fidgeting,” she admonished. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m making you nervous?” he muttered. He felt bad as soon as he said it. Deidameia was being unbelievably understanding - whatever her reasons were, she had essentially given him permission to pursue a relationship with her husband - and here he was, being rude.

Deidameia only huffed and turned back to her phone.   

By the time they pulled up to the Palace, Patroclus’ hands were shaking. He clenched his hands into fists to stop the tremors. He’d built this moment up too much in his head. This was Achilles.

Deidameia touched him lightly on the shoulder as Linus opened the door for him. “It’ll be alright,” she said, looking into his eyes. “We all do what we must.”

He nodded and pushed himself out of the car. Linus steadied him as he stepped into the hot midday air.

“You’ll want to see him right away?” Linus asked discretely.

“I think so.”

“I took the liberty of calling ahead. He’s in the olive grove.”

 

* * *

 

The olive grove was exactly as it had been the last time Patroclus was there. The gravel path through the bountiful vegetable beds was the same, the arched boughs of the hazelnut trees were the same. The shady peace of the place was the same.

Achilles lay in the middle of the grove, sprawled on his back, knees bent. One arm was thrown over his eyes, no doubt to shade them from stray sunbeams, while his other was pressed to the scar on his stomach. He was still dressed in all black, though he’d exchanged his long-sleeved tunic for a sleeveless one.

Patroclus stopped at the edge of the olive grove to soak in the sight. Achilles was beautiful, truly.

Achilles must have heard his footsteps though. “Go away.” The words were rough, like Achilles hadn’t been speaking much lately.

Patroclus stayed. In the last sixteen days, they had seen each other for maybe five minutes. He was suddenly glad Deidameia had talked him into coming back. He didn’t want to live without this. Without Achilles. Not if he didn’t have to.

“You’re not getting another warning,” said Achilles, his voice stronger this time. “Leave me.”

“I won’t,” said Patroclus softly.

Achilles was on his feet instantly, his face reflecting the same hope and anxiety currently tormenting Patroclus. “You’re here,” he said, sounding breathless.”How are you? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Patroclus said. He held up his injured arm. “Almost healed.”  He lowered the arm and cleared his throat. “I’m here to tell you my decision, if you’d like to hear it.”

“Yes. Of course.” Achilles glided over the bright green grass until he stood right in front of Patroclus. “I did what you said. No texting, no calling, no visits. Time and space.”

“I appreciate that,” said Patroclus. His heart fluttered painfully and his palms sweated. “I thought about it a lot.”

“And?”

“I’ll go with you.”

Achilles took up Patroclus’ hand with both of his and pressed it against his chest. The touch rippled across Patroclus’ skin; he became hyper aware of being in his own body. Everything felt more real than it had a moment before. “You’ll go with me to Thrace?”

“Yes,” said Patroclus. “But I have to say this first.” Now was the time for honesty. There would be no time later. “Achilles...I’m afraid for you. For both of us.” The worry was oppressive, a constant weight bearing down on his shoulders. It felt more substantial than the usual fears of an unknown future.

Achilles pulled Patroclus to him, the lengths of their bodies pressed against one another. He cradled Patroclus in his strong arms, more gentle than he’d ever been.

“I know you’re afraid,” Achilles said, swift and sure, stroking Patroclus’ hair with one hand. “But it’s going to be brilliant. We’ll be brilliant, you’ll see.”

Patroclus closed his eyes. “What if we don’t make it,” he whispered.

Achilles pulled back, his eyes intent on Patroclus’ face. “Nothing will happen to you Patroclus. It’ll be dangerous, yeah, but that won’t matter. I’ll be there. I’ll keep you safe. I swear.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Patroclus. “I’ll worry about me. I want you to promise that you’ll keep yourself safe. Body and mind, Achilles. I don’t want to lose you.” It already felt like Achilles was slipping away. The war was only going to make that worse.

“Lose me?” Achilles stepped back from Patroclus. “That thing with Menelaus...I’ll admit, that was a mistake. I should have come to you first, like I promised. I should have tried harder. But you’ll be with me all the time, Patroclus. You can tell me when I’m being unreasonable, and I can keep you safe. We’ll be a team. We’ll make each other better.”

“So you’ll promise me?” Patroclus pressed. “This can’t be the Trojan War, Part II. I won’t stand for that. You can’t act like that this time. You have to promise me. That’s part of why I’m going with you. I want to be with you, more than anything. But I also want to make sure no one dies who doesn’t have to.”

Harsh words, but they needed to be said.

“If you can’t do that,” Patroclus continued, “tell me now.”

Achilles stared at him for a moment, eyes pained. “I’ve already told you,” he said quietly. “I’ll do whatever you say. How can I make you believe me?” Rather than waiting for an answer, he crouched down to pull a knife out of his ankle holster. “Maybe this will do it.”

With no more warning than that, Achilles grabbed his hair - it was in the same intricate mourning braid as the last time Patroclus saw him - and began to hack through the base of his braid with the knife.

Patroclus rushed forward, alarmed. “Achilles! Stop!” Achilles was cutting off his hair. Achilles loved his hair. He cared for it like most people would care for a pet. And, to be honest, Patroclus loved his hair too. The softness of it under his fingers...

Achilles didn’t stop. In a matter of seconds he held the long braid in front of him. When no longer attached to Achilles’ head, the hair seemed dull and lifeless. The hair that remained fell in an uneven cloud to the tops of Achilles’ shoulders.

“You see?” Achilles asked. He let the braid fall to the ground. “I’m serious. About everything.” He dropped the knife on the ground too, and then let his hands fall heavily to his sides. “Please come with me, Patroclus. Please. I can’t do this without you. I just can’t.”

Now it was Patroclus’ turn to wrap Achilles up in his arms. “You don’t have to.”

 


	12. here we go

Patroclus called Briseis that night and told her what happened in the olive grove.

When he finished, Briseis didn’t try to change his mind. They were past that. She took the news in silence and let the moment settle before speaking. “Did you wonder, just for a second even, if he was going to do something else with the knife?”

Patroclus glanced at Achilles, who was sitting crosslegged on their couch, a guitar in his lap. They’d gone to one of his family’s stylists first thing. Compared to what it was, his hair was now shockingly short. The sides were shaved close, while the top was just long enough to be fashionable.

The stylist had approved of the change. A more serious look, she’d said, for the tough times ahead. Appropriately warlike. Very in.

Achilles must have felt Patroclus’ eyes on him. He looked up, flicked a few strands of hair off his forehead, and gave Patroclus a sunny smile.

Patroclus smiled back, his lips twitching up automatically. Then he turned around, shifting the phone to his other hand.

“It happened so fast,” he said, his smile fading.

Achilles told him once that he kept his hair long because he wanted to be memorable. But it was never his hair that people remembered.

 

* * *

 

Patroclus re-enlisted the next day. He didn’t even have to leave the Palace to do it. The army officer came to him, nervous and done up head to toe in her blue dress uniform.

Achilles vibrated at his side through the whole meeting, excited as a school boy. His fingers tapped lightly on the polished wood table as Patroclus signed and initialed his way through a short stack of paper.

“Well, that’s that,” said Patroclus, setting the pen down gently. Start to finish, the entire process took less than ten minutes. The officer gathered the papers together, checked to make sure Patroclus hadn’t missed any sign lines, and left them with a quiet thank you. Patroclus inhaled shakily as the door clicked behind her.

Achilles caught Patroclus’ trembling hand with his own and squeezed. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” said Patroclus. Except, he obviously wasn’t. He took a deep breath. “It’s just...I was eighteen last time I enlisted. I didn’t know any better. Now I know better and I’m doing it again.” The difference was that this time he wasn’t going into the medical corps. If he did, he wouldn’t get to travel with Achilles.

“For me.”

“Of course.”

Achilles leaned closer to rub his cheek against Patroclus’ face. At the same time, the fingers of his free hand started to trace their delicate way up Patroclus’ thigh.

Patroclus tightened his grip on Achilles’ hand until it started to hurt. He could feel Achilles’ answering smile against his skin.

“How can I show you my appreciation?” Achilles whispered into his ear.

“I still have to go to the hospital,” Patroclus managed. His eyes were fixed on the pen on the table. “Tell them I’m leaving my residency. More paperwork.” He regretted having to quit the program, but he couldn’t stay. Who knew how long this war with Thrace would last.

Achilles tilted his head so he could reach Patroclus’ lips. “Give us half an hour,” he said, his voice rough. “Then I’ll go with you.”

Patroclus answered with a grunt. Achilles’ hand had made it to the top of his thigh.

“We’ll do it together,” Achilles said, pressing his hand between Patroclus’ legs. “Everything together.”

“Okay,” Patroclus said. He tilted his head back to give Achilles room to kiss up his throat. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Rivulets of sweat ran freely down Patroclus’ neck, over the small of his back, the backs of his knees. His skin felt uncomfortably hot. A blister was forming on the heel of his left foot. He was moving more slowly with each passing minute, but he no longer cared; he’d left his dignity back at mile eight.

“Come on, Patroclus,” laughed Achilles. He poked Patroclus with his elbow. “Only a mile left.”

Patroclus scowled at him, too tired to talk. Achilles’ steps were still light and energetic. The light sheen of sweat across his brow only made him more attractive.

Damn him anyway.

After Patroclus re-enlisted, his training had started in earnest. Most he did with military instructors and other recruits: marksmanship at the range, drill, hand to hand. Achilles, however, had taken on Patroclus’ cardiovascular fitness as his personal mission.

“I want you to have every advantage,” Achilles had said when he’d proposed their near-daily runs for the first time. “I’ll watch your back, but who knows what could happen. You need to be able to run.”

So Patroclus ran. And Achilles ran next to him, pace steady, breathing regular.

 

* * *

 

May melted into June melted into July. The signs of upcoming war were too obvious to miss. Troy thrummed with hot, angry energy.

Not everyone was happy about war with Thrace.

“A hundred thousand people,” said Achilles slowly. The newspaper fluttered in his hands as he waved it at the window. The rising sun had crept in and cast their kitchen in soft, buttery light. “A hundred thousand people protesting in the streets. The Anatolians should be celebrating. This is a good thing. When we win this war, everyone in this ungrateful city will be better off.”

Patroclus finished washing his hands and turned toward their breakfast: two steaming pans of menemen, sent up by the kitchens, and sitting on the counter. The familiar smell of tomatoes was a comfort.

“It wasn’t so long ago that the Anatolians felt the weight of Greek military intervention,” said Patroclus. He grabbed the pans of menemen and walked them over to the kitchen table. “You can hardly blame them. They know what it’s like.”

That’s certainly why Briseis had gone to the protest.

Achilles moved the paper to allow Patroclus to set the pan in front of him. His muscles flexed restlessly beneath his dark green tank top. “But they’re saying the war is unnecessary. _Unnecessary_.”

Patroclus dipped his bread in his menemen. Achilles wasn’t looking for an answer. Even if he was, Patroclus didn’t have one.

 

* * *

 

“I’m going with you,” said Linus.

Patroclus stared at him. “What?”

“I’m military, right? I asked for reassignment from Palace guard to field guard. I’m going with you and Prince Achilles to Thrace.”

Patroclus gripped Linus’ forearm tightly. Relief had him feeling dizzy and selfish.

 

* * *

 

Odysseus stood next to Patroclus as Achilles left them to meet Thetis.

It was 12:23pm on Wednesday, August 20, and Tyndareus had just declared war on Greece. On Achilles, really. At least, he’d had a lot to say about Achilles in his declaration. His speech included liberal use of the words _inhuman_ , _psychotic_ , and _murderer_.  

War with Greece was in _the best interests of humanity_ , because no man, woman, or child was safe so long as _a monster like Achilles Pelides_ was next in line to rule one of the most powerful nations in the world.  

“Tyndareus never was a man to mince words,” said Odysseus, turning off the television.

Patroclus snorted and sat at Achilles’ desk. They’d watched the broadcast in Achilles’ office. It looked much like Thetis’. Patroclus was glad Achilles didn’t spend much time there.   

Odysseus looked at Patroclus sideways. “It would have been better if you’d stopped him killing Menelaus. What’s done is done, I suppose.”

“Now you want to blame me for the whole war?” asked Patroclus.

“Well,” said Odysseus with a shrug. “Maybe. This might have happened eventually, but you certainly didn’t help.”

Patroclus dropped his head into his hands. “I’m sure you have a lot to do before Friday, Odysseus,” he said. This was happening. All of this was really happening. “I think it’s best if you leave.”

Odysseus didn’t leave. Not right away. “Think about it, Patroclus. Do you really think Menelaus had the balls to order a hit on you, let alone our darling Prince?”

Patroclus peered over his hands, eyes narrowed.

“How much do you know about Paris Priamides?” Odysseus asked next.

Patroclus shook his head. “He’s been banished for years, along with the rest of that family. I heard he was a bit of a fop. Harmless.”

“Ugh,” muttered Odysseus. He sounded exasperated, of all things. Exasperated and disappointed. “It really should have been me.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Odysseus scrubbed his hand through his short beard and turned to go. “What’s done is done. See you on the front lines.”

 

* * *

 

Smooth skin dimpled under the tips of Patroclus’ fingers. The give was enchanting. He pressed harder, and the tanned skin under his hands turned white.

“Uhn, Patroclus,” Achilles panted. “Please.”

Patroclus flattened his hands and put pressure on the bit of skin between Achilles’ sharp shoulder blades. Achilles’ upper body dropped in response, his chest pressed harder into the back of their living room couch.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said again, nearly breathless.

A mystery, really. Achilles could run for miles and never get winded, but sex left him gasping. Every time.

“It’s okay. I’m right here,” Patroclus said. He leaned forward, his hips flush with Achilles’, and wrapped his arms around Achilles’ chest.

When he looked up, he could see both of their reflections in the blank, black screen of the television. Unable to look into his own muddy, owlish eyes, he quickly averted his gaze to Achilles’ face.

The entire world was contained in the topography of Achilles’ face, clear as day. Bliss buzzed along the clean line of his cheek before it dipped down to pool in the honeycomb of his eyes. Spiders skittered in the shadows under the dark red curve of his lips, salvaged, savaged, a salve that wrapped its many legs around Patroclus’ ribcage and drew him closer. Evidence of life, of love, poured from Achilles, and it simply wouldn’t stop.     

Pure accident, this love. How did it find them? Glorious and terrible. A divine trap.   

Underneath him, Achilles shook. The world fell out.   

Patroclus moved in closer to catch it. “I’m right here, Achilles. I’m right here.”

 

* * *

 

The day before he and Achilles were set to leave Troy, Patroclus looked up to see Thetis staring at him from a Palace window. He and Achilles and just finished their run, and they were cooling down by talking a walk through the vegetable garden. Every few steps, Achilles would let his arm brush against Patroclus’.

Thetis was too far away for Patroclus to make out her expression.

In spite of the stares, Thetis had not spoken to Patroclus since he’d returned from his time at Briseis’ apartment. Patroclus was relieved he didn’t have to face her, but he wasn’t sure what her silence meant. Surely, she knew about him and Achilles by now. Odysseus had said as much, just after Patroclus was stabbed at Chiron’s cabin.

Achilles, on the other hand, spoke to his mother more than he ever had. Patroclus often wondered what Thetis said about him to Achilles. He wondered what Achilles said back.

He’d asked once, late at night when he and Achilles were in bed. Everything had been warm and quiet. Achilles was tugging softly on Patroclus’ curls and letting them spring back towards his scalp. It felt nice.

“I think, deep down, she understands,” Achilles said softly. He’d scratched lightly at Patroclus’ scalp, and Patroclus had brought an arm up to rest on Achilles’ bare chest. “Even if she doesn’t recognize it herself. She told me once that she knew what it felt like. To love another person so much you’d do anything for them.

“Oh,” Patroclus said.

He closed his eyes and never asked again.

 

* * *

 

They took a private transport to their forward operating base. A royal privilege, to be sure. Achilles climbed in first. Patroclus followed.

Achilles grinned so wide it had to hurt. He let out a joyful cry as they settled into their uncomfortable seats. Patroclus flinched.

“Honor and glory,” he said to Patroclus, eyes bright. “Stay with me. I’ll show you.”

Patroclus nodded. Was he strong enough for this? How do you slow down a meteor?

The transport lurched forward.

Achilles pressed his nose to the window, his hand reaching back for Patroclus. “Here we go.”


	13. undone

A steady, gray rain had been falling for days. November was well underway. Patroclus was in a vacant lot, surrounded on three sides by hunched buildings and the town’s main thoroughfare on the other. Five Thracian soldiers knelt shoulder to shoulder on the muddy ground in front of him. Exhaustion and fear were evident in every part of them: the slump of their shoulders, the way their arms trembled, the sad bend in their necks. No resistance. Only resigned acceptance.

They fully expected Achilles to kill them.

“Thank you,” said Patroclus. He slung his rifle across his back and pulled Achilles into him, touching their foreheads together. Achilles could have killed those men with frightening ease, but he hadn’t. He listened to Patroclus, just like he’d promised. “You’re doing well.”

“Yeah, well. They’re lucky you’re here,” said Achilles, pulling back. He ran a critical eye down Patroclus’ body. “And so am I. You’re alright?”

“As always,” Patroclus replied. In all of their skirmishes, he’d never been touched, and this particular one had been safer than most. They’d taken the relatively undefended town of Apsynthi in southern Thrace. The few Thracian soldiers still in residence upon their arrival had barely put up a fight.

The evidence was kneeling before them, shivering in the mid-morning chill.

Patroclus frowned at the captured soldiers. He could see a pattern emerging, a condensation of threads at the corner of his vision. Most of the towns they’d passed through had fallen without real struggle. On the one hand, he was thankful. Achilles kept his head better when their operations went smoothly. The carefully cultivated rage in him was easier to control. On the other hand...Tyndareus was no fool. He wouldn’t have started a war he didn’t think he could win.

Something was up, and Patroclus wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Odysseus crouched beside one of the captured soldiers, his pistol covering the soldier’s side. “This one’s hurt,” he said, motioning toward the shrapnel wounds that flowed up the man’s left arm and chest. The man closed his eyes and leaned as far from Odysseus as he could get. Mud squelched under his knees.

Odysseus smiled thinly and looked to Patroclus. “What do you want to do with them?”

Patroclus shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Shouldn’t you be asking your commanding officer?”

Odysseus stood up. His beard dripped with rain. “Yes, how silly of me.” With exaggerated slowness, he turned to Achilles. “What do you want me to do with them, my dear Prince?”

Achilles hesitated for a moment, then turned to Patroclus, eyebrows raised.

Odysseus’ booming laugh echoed around the vacant lot.  

“Alright, that’s enough,” said Ajax. Ajax was Achilles’ cousin, and the brown bear to Achilles’ panther; Patroclus doubted he could circle one of Ajax’s biceps with both hands. He was also kind and even-tempered, thank the stars.

“Let’s just get this done,” Dione added, coming to stand next to Patroclus. After Achilles, Dione was the best fighter in Achilles’ force. She looked a bit like Achilles too, with her fair complexion. Unlike Achilles, however, Dione did not revel in her skill. She had a job to do, and she was going to do it as efficiently as possible. “I’d like to minimize our exposure, please.”

Patroclus nodded along until he realized that everyone was looking at him instead of Achilles. Odysseus cocked his head and smirked.

Patroclus relented with a sigh. “If we take them back with us, we might be able to trade them later.”

“You heard the man,” said Achilles. He clapped his hands sharply. “Nicolaides. Call it in.”

Linus, who’d been standing silently behind Patroclus through the entire exchange, scrambled for his com.

 

* * *

 

While they waited for the prisoner transport, Patroclus took Odysseus’ place next to the injured Thracian. The squad’s official medic, Machaon, had returned to camp to help with a Greek soldier who’d been hit by friendly fire earlier in the morning. Whenever she was gone, Patroclus took over healer’s duties.

“My name is Patroclus,” he said gently. He put his pack on the ground next to him. “I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

The soldier stared at him, his breath shallow. He’d lost his helmet somewhere, and rain traced rivulets down his dusky cheeks.

“I’ll just clean them a bit, administer some topical anaesthetic,” Patroclus continued. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

Pain is a powerful motivator. The soldier nodded his assent, body tense.

“Thank you,” said Patroclus. “You can sit down, if you want.”

Both of them were quiet for the next few minutes, the silence broken only by the soldier’s occasional grunts of pain. With the exception of Linus - he was guarding the prisoners, rifle at the ready - none of the Greeks were paying Patroclus any attention. Even Achilles was distracted; he and Odysseus were speaking intently on the other side of the lot.

It was Patroclus who broke the silence. “What’s your name?” he asked.

The man glanced nervously at his fellows. None of them showed any signs of caring about the conversation taking place beside them.

“Kyros,” the man said weakly.

“Kyros,” Patroclus repeated. He bit off a piece of surgical tape with his teeth. “That’s a Greek name.”

Kyros winced as Patroclus pressed the tape onto his arm. “My father was Greek.”

“And your mother was Thracian?” asked Patroclus. He shook his head sadly. “This must be hard for you then.”

“Not particularly,” said Kyros. His lip curled in either disgust or contempt, the first sign of defiance he’d shown since his capture. “My mother isn’t Thracian. She’s Anatolian. Got knocked up by some Greek on holiday. She never saw him again, and I never saw him at all.”

Patroclus paused and let his arms fall to his sides. He sat back on his heels. “So you’re Anatolian?”

“Born and raised.”

“Then why are you fighting for Thrace?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Kyros answered back. “You Greeks, you’re all the same. You think you’re entitled to everything, the whole world. You see it, you want it, and you just take it. Well, Anatolia isn’t yours. It never was. And neither is Thrace.”

Kyros glared at Patroclus. “Greece has to be stopped. He-” Kyros jerked his head to where Achilles was still talking to Odysseus “-has to be stopped. Yeah, I recognize him. I saw what he did in Anatolia. He ordered half my city burned to the ground. Lit the first house himself. It’s only a matter of time before he does the same here. And where does it stop? Macedonia? Illyria? If Tyndareus is the only one with the courage to fight back, I’ll fight with him. And I’m not the only one.”

The deluge of words crashed into Patroclus. One phrase in particular cut into him and lodged in his guts. “You’re not the only one?”

“Not even close,” spat Kyros. “Anatolia is ready to-”

“For fuck’s sake!” one of the other Thracian soldiers cut in. Kyros had finally gone far enough to break his apathetic disinterest. “Shut your fat trap, kid. Just ‘cause the guy patched you up don’t mean he’s one of us.”

“Yes,” said Patroclus quickly. What Kyros had told him might mean nothing, but he had a bad feeling about it. Everything was too easy. “I’m done anyway.”

 

* * *

 

The following week, the command group met in a temporary structure just outside Apsynthi. The building was small and dark, it’s plastic sides thin, but it served it’s purpose. At least the inside was warm and dry.

“We’ve spent the last few days scrambling to inform ourselves on the workings of our own holding,” said Odysseus. Each word was a little drop of acid.

Achilles’ group was present -  Patroclus, Linus, Odysseus, Dione, Ajax, Machaon - as was Phoenix. Phoenix was an older man with close-cropped white hair and wiry muscles up and down his arms. He was one of Achilles’ military advisors. They all sat around an oval table in the center of the room.

“We’ve discovered that Anatolia represents a problem,” Odysseus continued. “A big problem.”

“The Anatolians were already a problem,” said Achilles disdainfully. He was sitting next to Patroclus. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “They were out protesting before the war even started.”

“Yes. Peacefully,” said Odysseus. “Since the war started, the situation has escalated. The protests are no longer peaceful. ”

“So, riots,” said Achilles. “Okay, that’s easy. Put them down. Isn’t that what we’ve been doing so far? Otherwise we would have been worried before now.”

“It’s not that easy,” Phoenix said. “The riots are getting worse. They’re spreading, involving more people, lasting longer. We called up the national guard to support the war effort. All that’s left in most of Anatolia are local police forces. They’re greatly outnumbered. If we do nothing, the riots may escalate to a full blown uprising.”

“So we’ll send some people back,” said Achilles. “Help calm things down.”

Odysseus shook his head. “That’s where things get tricky. Our troops are spread thin as it is, and the farther we travel into Thrace, the thinner we get. If we send enough troops to Anatolia to make a difference, we would have to arrest our forward momentum. That could leave time for another threat to materialize. One that has recently come to our attention. Patroclus?”

Patroclus met Achilles’ eyes, then looked around the table. “Tyndareus is recruiting Anatolians to fight with his army here in Thrace. Anatolians are crossing the border in greater numbers every day. He has help - Hector and Paris Priamides are helping him. It’s a quid pro quo kind of situation. They want Anatolia back.” He tilted his head to the side. “So do the Anatolians, for that matter. Which is how we’ve gotten to where we are now.”

Dione rubbed her hand across her face. She looked like she hadn’t been sleeping much. “So we’re looking at war on two fronts, with us smack in the middle.”

“Potentially,” said Odysseus.

Beside Patroclus, Achilles had curled his hands into fists. They were shaking, hard. Patroclus took one of Achilles’ fists in his hands. Achilles allowed the gesture, but didn’t stop shaking.

“How,” Achilles bit out, “did we not know about this? Why did Patroclus have to find out from some foot soldier?”

“Well,” started Odysseus. “I imagine we didn’t know because we weren’t looking. Who would have thought Anatolia would find a backbone?”

Ajax raised his palm, cutting through the tension and calling the attention to himself. “The question we should be asking,” he said carefully, “is what we’re going to do next.”

A terrible smile split Achilles’ face. “I’m sure we’ll think of something,” he said.

Patroclus clutched Achilles’ fist harder between his palms.

 

* * *

 

They lay together in their tent that night, face to face, their blankets pulled up over their heads. They pushed their cots together every night so they could sleep like this. The air in the dark canvas tent was chill, but the air under their blankets was warm, warm, warm. They had a flashlight under their blankets with them, it’s light pointing down from the top of the pillow, illuminating their faces.

Patroclus ran the pad of his finger from Achilles’ temple to his chin, then pushed his hand into Achilles’ short hair. “Sometimes I wish you hadn’t cut it.”

Achilles smiled at him. “It’ll grow back. It’s not like it’s gone forever.” Then his smile dimmed. “I thought I was going to lose you though. Forever, maybe.”

“But you didn’t,” said Patroclus. He shifted to throw one of his legs over Achilles’.

“No,” said Achilles. “But I could have. I still could.” He swallowed heavily, his forehead furrowing. “I don’t know what I would do. I’ve never lost anything before. Anyone.”

That wasn’t true. Patroclus believed Achilles had lost a lot. Or, maybe it would be more accurate to say he’d had a lot taken from him. But he knew what Achilles meant. “That’s normal. I didn’t know what to do when my mom died.”

Achilles leaned in close and kissed Patroclus on the forehead. He stayed there, his lips resting against Patroclus’ skin, just breathing.

“What was it like?” he finally asked.

“I don’t...” Patroclus trailed off, his eyes tracing the shadowy curve of Achilles’ neck. How could he possibly put this into words? Then again, this was Achilles. Achilles would understand, even if the words weren’t perfect. “I didn’t know who I was anymore. My mom was a part of me, you know? And when she died, that part of me died too.”

Achilles’ hand pressed softly into Patroclus’ back. “You lost her and realized that you’d gone missing as well.”

“Yes,” Patroclus whispered. “That’s exactly what happened. I think it happens every time we lose something. Part of what made us who we are is missing, so we’re forced to...I don’t know. Transform. Whether we want to or not.”

“And if we refuse to transform?” asked Achilles. He drew back so he could look at Patroclus’ face again.

"I don’t think that’s an option,” said Patroclus slowly. “It’s not something we get to control. With my mom, it came in waves. I would wake up and have all these plans, and then it wouldn’t even be lunch and they’d all fall apart. I would get hit by a wave and fall. I would get hit again and feel exhausted. It was all bigger than me. My father never understood.”

Achilles made a sympathetic noise, his hand coming up again to stroke Patroclus’ face. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you went through that alone. I wish I’d met you when we were kids. We could have had each other’s backs from the start.”

“Yeah, well,” said Patroclus. He put his hand over the back of Achilles’. “I would have grieved no matter what. And that’s what grief is. Our narrative falters, our story unravels, and we realize we were always already undone.”

“Being undone,” said Achilles. “I know what that feels like.”

“But you’ve never lost anyone,” said Patroclus.

“No,” Achilles agreed. He brought his head forward, nuzzling into Patroclus’ neck. “But I don’t think grief is the only thing that can make you feel that way. Undone.”

Patroclus’ heart began to beat a harder rhythm as Achilles kissed up his neck.

“Desire,” breathed Achilles. Patroclus wrapped his arms around Achilles, bringing him closer. “Desire, I know.”

One of Achilles’ hands slipped down, feeling its way across Patroclus’ belly. When Achilles’ spoke again, he whispered his words directly into Patroclus ear. “I tried to stay intact. I managed, for a little while. But in spite of my best efforts, I am transformed. By the taste.”

Achilles’ kissed Patroclus again, this time on the lips.

“By the touch.”

He took one of Patroclus’ hands in his and brought it up to his own face.

“By the feel.”

He pushed the hand currently resting on Patroclus’ belly down a little farther. Patroclus inhaled sharply, his muscles fluttering. The warm air turned hot.

“By the scent.” Achilles pushed his nose against Patroclus’ neck. “Whenever I’m with you or think about you or remember the way you feel, I know my body isn’t really mine. I am not really me. I am literally undone by you.”

Patroclus would have to be a fool to think that he wasn’t undone by Achilles in return. This relationship was transforming him. Transforming them both, but in ways neither of them could predict.

Patroclus reached up and switched off the light.

 


	14. snow

Patroclus knelt on what used to be a road and rifled through a dead man’s pockets. Snowflakes swirled around him, tiny and cold, as his hand closed around the man’s wallet.

Patroclus held the wallet for a moment, watching the snow. Snow was supposed to be white, but this snow was different. This snow was gray. Gray snow that fell on gray buildings. Gray former-buildings, really, their gray skeletons exposed and slumping, blasted and empty. 

He flipped open the dead man’s battered wallet. The first thing he saw was a driver’s license. It read: Antonios Melas, thirty-four, Macedonian. Patroclus swallowed and slid the license out its pocket. Underneath was a press badge. Antonios Melas, thirty-four, journalist for The Pella Daily.

Snow fell on the dead man’s pale skin and disappeared, melted by residual body heat.

Patroclus let his hands fall into his lap, his chin falling to his chest. Gray flakes clung to his lashes, swirled into his nose and mouth. His breath steamed in the bitter air. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he could feel his aching muscles, his numb cheeks. He was exhausted.

Behind him, boots crunched across gravel. Patroclus jerked his head up.

It took a few seconds for Achilles to speak. He cleared his throat first, a rough sound that matched the landscape. “I’m sorry.”

Patroclus nodded and dropped the wallet on the dead man’s chest. They would call this in. A team would collect the body, contact the family, arrange for the body to be sent back to Macedonia. It was the least they could do. The very least.

“Things like this are going to happen,” Achilles said, his voice coming closer. His shadow fell over Patroclus. “We don’t get to hesitate. We can’t afford to.” His gloved hand appeared in Patroclus’ peripheral vision.

Patroclus studied Achilles’ gloved hand for a moment before taking it. Achilles did the heavy lifting, tugging Patroclus to his feet.

“He wasn’t a combatant,” Patroclus said, dropping Achilles’ hand. “No weapon. He had press credentials.”

“Then he knew the risks. War zone reporting is risky business.”

“That’s...” Patroclus blinked hard. That was what? A terrible excuse? The truth? He’d chosen to go to war to keep Achilles from falling into old habits, but it was still a war. Accidents were going to happen.

More crunching heralded the arrival of Odysseus. Snow was collecting on his dark beard, on his eyebrows. He noticed the tension, of course, his eyes moving from Achilles to Patroclus.  “What’s up?”

Achilles scowled at the body. “Dead civilian. A journalist too, so you know the press is going to make a stink.”

Odysseus shrugged. “Whatever. They live for this kind of thing. The papers will sell themselves.” He moved his hand through the air, tracing out a headline. “ _Prince Pelides slays noble truth-teller_. _Life unfair._ ”

The tension in the air doubled. Patroclus could feel his chest tightening, his breaths becoming shorter and more shallow. His armor felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. He struggled to keep his body from dragging itself to the ground.

Achilles caught his bicep and squeezed, though his scowl was now directed at Odysseus. “Shut up.”

“Oh.” Odysseus’ eyes widened, then crinkled at the corners. “ _Oh._ Saint Patroclus. How could you.”

The man had been staring at the street, just staring, right at Achilles and Dione. Patroclus and Linus were at the other end of the street, covering. The man had reached into his jacket. What was Patroclus supposed to do? He hadn’t known the man was a journalist, or that he’d been reaching for a camera and not a gun.

Patroclus had taken the shot.

“I said shut up,” Achilles snapped at Odysseus. He tried to put his arm around Patroclus, but Patroclus shrugged him off.

Achilles’ face tightened. His hands flexed at his sides. “You’re doing it again. The same thing you did when you killed that guy in the woods. But you don’t need to. I would have done the same thing.”

“I know, Achilles,” Patroclus breathed. He steadied himself, willing his voice louder. “Isn’t that the problem? The whole point of me being here is to keep you from going crazy. Not join in the fun.”

The words were out of his mouth, falling with the snow, before Patroclus could stop them. Achilles’ face fell and opened at the same time, his hurt cutting through the afternoon gloom like a beacon. All Achilles’ vulnerabilities, his wracking insecurities, skittered across his skin.

“That’s not fair,” Achilles said, voice thick. “You know that’s not fair.”

“I’m...” This time it was Patroclus who reached out and Achilles who flinched away. “Achilles, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes,” said Odysseus. “You did.”

Patroclus spun to face Odysseus. Fury was easier than guilt or regret. Odysseus was always good at provoking fury. “Why are you always around? You are the least helpful person I’ve ever met.”

“Don’t yell at Odysseus,” said Achilles. “None of this is his fault.”

Odysseus held up his hands, palms out. Patroclus scoffed loudly.

“Fine,” Achilles said. “You know what, Patroclus? I’m going to help Dione and Ajax. You can wait for Machaon yourself.” He swung his rifle off his back and held it loosely in his hands. “Find me later.”

He pointed stiffly at Odysseus. “And you. I don’t know where the hell Nicolaides went, but I won’t have Patroclus out here alone. If I hear you’ve left him by himself, we’re going to have words.”

Odysseus kept his hands up. “Understood, my Prince.”

With one last look at Patroclus, Achilles turned on his heel and stalked away, snowflakes circling in his wake. Patroclus watched Achilles go, Odysseus to his left and the dead man on his right.

When Achilles was far enough away that he couldn’t overhear, Odysseus raised his an eyebrow at Patroclus. A few bits of snow flaked off and melted on Odysseus’ cheek.

“Well,” Odysseus said. “Consider me impressed. You were positively monstrous.”

Patroclus would turn his back on Odysseus, but then he’d be facing the body. And he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t face the black blood, the dusting of snow across the dead man’s clothes. So he glared at Odysseus instead.

“Did I hit a nerve?”

“Don’t talk to me.”

Odysseus tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve been wondering. What is a monster anyway? Excess, certainly. Someone who transcends the normal and transgresses the boundaries of polite society. Lack, too. Someone who’s missing whatever it is that makes everyone else whole, or seemingly so. But most of all, a monster is in-between. Ambiguous, you know. Life and death, horror and fascination, sacred and profane, heaven and hell. Sound familiar?”

Patroclus pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead. He was surprised to find it already shaking. The dead man was still behind him, waiting. “What is your problem?”

“You manipulate Achilles endlessly,” Odysseus replied. “But with absolutely no subtlety or self-awareness. I mean, seriously. Look around you!” Odysseus turned in a slow circle, only stopping to point to the dead journalist. “Either all of us are monsters or none of us are.”

“I’m manipulative?” Patroclus said, voice full of disbelief. “Thetis makes Achilles think the more people he kills the more heroic he is, that his value lies in his trigger finger, and you go along with it, but I’m the manipulative one?”

“Yes,” Odysseus said simply. “One day you’ll realize that Achilles can’t be what you want him to be. When that day comes, and it will come soon, you’ll leave because it’ll mean you can’t be what _you_ want _yourself_ to be. Then Achilles will be as miserable as he ever was, only this time he’ll know it. And what do you think will happen then? This is a fucking selfish thing you’re doing with him, Patroclus, and I think you know it.”   

“I love him.”

“No, I love him. You love someone else entirely.”

 

* * *

 

Night was well underway when Patroclus saw Achilles again. Achilles was surrounded by lackeys - except for Phoenix, who could hardly be called a lackey - and hating every second of it. From the way Achilles rubbed his hand across the scar on his stomach to the way he tapped his foot against the dirt to the way he reached for hair he no longer had, Achilles’ body screamed the truth of his annoyance.

Patroclus wondered how much of that was the lackeys and how much was down to him.

Achilles and his group stood outside the pre-fab command shack, their breath steaming from their mouths. The afternoon snow had stopped, but the temperature had sunk with the sun. Thracian winter was absolutely brutal.

Patroclus walked past the group quickly, his hands tucked into his pockets. Without looking, he could feel Achilles’ eyes on him as he went by, could feel Achilles’ shifting to track his movement. Also without looking, Patroclus could feel Achilles make his excuses to Phoenix and peel away from his group.

He walked back to their tent, feeling Achilles the whole way. He ducked into the tent and sat on their pushed-together beds.

Seconds later, Achilles pushed through the tent’s heavy canvas flaps, cheeks were stained red from the cold. His jaw was set, and his eyes were as guarded as they ever got. He stood just inside the tent, shoulders hunched, eyes hovering somewhere around Patroclus’ knees.

Patroclus breathed deeply. Achilles was so beautiful Patroclus could barely stand it. Heart-achingly beautiful. How was he so beautiful?

Earlier, Odysseus had called Patroclus selfish. Right now, right in this moment, Patroclus felt selfish. Everything seemed difficult because he made them that way. But he could make things easy, if he wanted. And he did want easy. He wanted Achilles, right now.

“Come here,” Patroclus said softly.

Achilles’ head tilted up until his eyes were on Patroclus’ chest. Progress, of a sort.

“Why?” Achilles asked.

A fair question. Patroclus let his breath out through his nose. He deserved the skepticism. “Because I want to tell you how sorry I am.”

Achilles’ face softened immediately. He sat next to Patroclus, their knees knocking together.

“It's not easy for you,” said Achilles. “You were scared.”

Patroclus took Achilles’ hand. “Yes, but not of you. _For_ you, but never _of_ you.” Scared of himself, maybe. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

Achilles tipped his head back and spoke his next words to the ceiling. “You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“What?”

“I do think it’s fun,” said Achilles. He let go of Patroclus’ hand and lay back on the bed. His fingers plucked at the dark fabric of his shirt. “I try not to let you see because it upsets you. But I like this. I like the planning and the patrols. I like fighting for my family.”

Patroclus let himself fall back so he was laying beside Achilles. Their legs were dangling off the bed, brushing against each other.

“I know,” Patroclus said. “You’re not very good at hiding things.”

Achilles took Patroclus’ hand again, squeezing it in his. His voice was small in the dim tent. “Patroclus?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re the best friend I ever had.”

Patroclus closed the last few inches between himself and Achilles, and rested his head against Achilles’ shoulder. "I love you too."


	15. pride comes before

“Can you believe this?” Achilles asked, furious.  

A newspaper appeared in front of Patroclus’ face, too close for him to actually read. It was pulled away as suddenly as it appeared. Patroclus was left blinking into his coffee.

“When I get my hands him, I will cut off his stupid curls and make him eat them,” Achilles snarled, snapping the paper in his hands. “Cowardly, brainless piece of fluff.”

Patroclus leaned his head left, then right, cracking his neck. Last night had been the latest in a long line of rough nights; their forward momentum into Thrace had stalled as winter wore on and travel became treacherous. At this rate, they wouldn’t make it to Messembria until spring. Achilles, of course, was going crazy with the delays, which meant late nights for Patroclus. Late nights and early mornings in their tent with too many cups of coffee.  

“You should be happy,” Patroclus said. He caught Achilles’ arm as he paced past, then pulled him down onto the tent’s other stool. “If he’s brainless he’ll be easy to beat.”

“Or he’ll flail around blindly until we’re all cut to ribbons,” Achilles answered, unappeased. He threw the paper onto the crate they used as a table, pinning it there with the heel of his palm. “Look at this, Patroclus. I don’t care that he told the press I killed that journalist-”

“I do.”

The quiet words took some of the angry wind out of Achilles’ sails. Achilles hated that Patroclus was still upset about the journalist.

He put his hand on Patroclus’ knee.

“I know,” Achilles said gently. Then he turned back to the paper, his voice sharpening again. “But look at this.” He lifted his hand from Patroclus’ knee and gestured at the headline:

_Prince Achilles sets fire to West Caeni; hundreds die in blaze_

And just below that:

_Prince Paris of Anatolia reports Scourge of Troy has returned_

“Lies,” Achilles said forcefully. “He makes it sound like I was running around with a torch and a hard on. This is a war. Things like this happen.”

 _Things like this happen_. That was becoming Achilles’ favorite phrase.

“It’s in his best interests for people to hate you,” Patroclus said. He folded the paper so the headline was hidden. After a moment, he set his coffee on top of it. “Of course he’s going to lie.”

“He has no honor,” Achilles said. He ran his hand through his hair, shaking it out of its holder. “He makes it seem like I’m totally out of control. I think I hate him.”

Patroclus stood, his shadow dancing across the walls of the tent. He draped himself over Achilles’ shoulders, kissing Achilles’ cheek. “I know it’s not true,” he said into Achilles’ temple. “Don’t waste your time on him.”

Little lines appeared at the corners of Achilles’ eyes as his brow furrowed. Patroclus kissed those too, hoping to smooth them out.

Achilles clutched Patroclus’ wrists against his chest. His gaze remained distant. “I hate him,” he whispered.

 

* * *

 

The next day was New Year’s Eve. That morning, Patroclus flew to Macedonia.  

Patroclus didn’t want to go, and he didn’t want Achilles to go either. Leaving the relative safety of the Greek camp felt terribly ill-advised, especially with the media’s resurrection of the Scourge of Troy. Achilles had never been popular with anyone but the Greeks, and the Macedonians hadn’t been fond of the Pelides family to start. Now, with Paris running his mouth all over town, Patroclus feared the turning tide of public opinion. Achilles didn’t need anyone else hating him.

In spite of Macedonia’s rocky history with the Pelides, the country was, at the moment, still considered neutral territory. As such, the Macedonian city Pella was mutually agreed upon as the site for the most recent round of prisoner exchange negotiations between Thrace and Greece. The negotiations – monitored and facilitated by Macedonian mediators – was set to take place on a compound in the Pella countryside.

Their plane landed on a military airfield just outside Pella with little fanfare.

“Let’s get this over with,” Achilles muttered. He stood, but waited for Odysseus to get off the plane first. Patroclus came next, then Linus.

“Don’t whine, my Prince,” Odysseus said, stepping onto the tarmac. He scanned the tops of the buildings to the right of the landing strip, his rifle held loosely in his hands. “You need this.”

Achilles scowled and glared at the side of Odysseus’ head. Linus took a few steps to the right, putting Patroclus’ body between himself and Achilles.

“Careful,” Odysseus said, still not looking. “You’re scaring the kid.”

Achilles rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything else.

Silence continued its reign on the trip to the compound. In spite of his foul mood – a bad mood which had lingered for weeks now – Achilles let Patroclus hold his hand during the ride. Patroclus took it as a good sign.

He kept close to Achilles as they pulled onto the paved drive that led to the heart of the compound. Naked trees flashed past on either side of them, each draped with a thin layer of ice and snow. At the end of the drive was a loop with a frozen pond in the middle; a modest cabin stood on the loop’s far side. The cabin was their destination. The front was already crawling with personnel: Thracian, Greek, and Macedonian.

The inside of the cabin was smaller than Patroclus had expected. The decor was the epitome of Macedonian rustic: exposed wood beams; heavy, plush chairs and couches; dark, hand-hewn tables; stone fireplace. The inside, like the cabin’s exterior, was also stuffed to the gills with people, including a small army of photographers and journalists.

The photographers and journalists were the whole point of the day; Achilles had dragged himself to Macedonia – a task he was entirely loathe to do – to demonstrate to the public at large his willingness to follow the rules of war. His willingness to grant mercy to captured soldiers.

Patroclus thought it was a good idea. In theory.

In practice, he worried.

As soon as Achilles entered the room, Macedonian functionaries began clearing out extraneous personnel. They had arrived before the Thracian representatives, though it wouldn’t be long before they arrived as well. Patroclus could see members of the Thracian staff speaking with Macedonians near the fireplace.

“If they wanted folksy charm, we could have done this at Chiron’s,” Achilles said through his teeth. A fake smile hung uneasily on his face, ready for the photographers.

Patroclus thought it was unfair how gorgeous Achilles still looked, fake smile notwithstanding. “I don’t think we’d all fit at Chiron’s.”

A Greek staffer, a young woman with incredibly shiny hair, began to herd them toward the sitting area, where two armchairs and a couch were arranged around an enormous table. “The Thracian delegation just arrived, Prince Achilles,” she said briskly. “We’re about to start.”

Even if the staffer hadn’t come to fetch them, Patroclus would have known the Thracians were coming. Half the heads in the room were turned toward the cabin’s front entrance. On top of that, a totally inappropriate air of anticipation filled the room, a level of tension not usually found at a prisoner negotiation.

Patroclus wasn’t the only one feeling the strange mood. Eyes narrowed, Odysseus was throwing dark looks around the room. Odysseus crouched next to Achilles, who was sat in one of the armchairs, and leaned into Achilles’ shoulder. He spoke softly, but Patroclus was close enough to hear.   

“I’ve got your back, Achilles,” Odysseus said, “which is why I’m reminding you now. This is an in and out thing. You shake hands, you smile for the camera, you leave.”

“I won’t do anything stupid,” Achilles grumbled through his smile. He arranged his formal, forest green tunic over his black leggings. Odysseus and Patroclus had convinced him it would be counter-productive to show up to a good-will photo op in military fatigues.  

“You say that now,” Odysseus said. He shot a sour look at the entrance. “Something’s up. Keep your head about you.”

“Yeah, fine,” Achilles said. He waved Odysseus away. “Stand up. We’re starting.”

Odysseus sighed, but did as he was bid. He got into position behind Achilles, flanking his left shoulder. Patroclus waited on Achilles’ right. They were ready.

Then Paris Priamides, exiled Prince of Anatolia, walked into the cabin.

Patroclus and Odysseus had their hands on Achilles’ shoulders immediately, to no avail. Achilles threw them off, his body out of the chair before Patroclus or Odysseus could stop him.

Paris, by contrast, flowed into the room with stately grandeur, his expression so serene it had to be practiced. His real political statement, however, was his clothing. He had on a black suit with a blood red dress shirt underneath – colors meant to invoke those on the Anatolian flag, no doubt. Paris didn’t want anyone forgetting what Achilles had done to his people.

But Patroclus wasn’t looking at Paris. For standing at the back of Paris’ retinue, also dressed in black and the same shade of Anatolian red, was Briseis.

“No,” Patroclus breathed.

If Achilles had reacted badly to seeing Paris, he was going to be apoplectic when he saw Briseis. He was going to take it as a personal betrayal.

The beginnings of panic fluttered in Patroclus’ gut.

“Shit.”

He worked to catch Briseis’ eye through the buzzing room, to try to do _something_ before Achilles went ballistic. He had to resort to waving his arms before he succeeded. When Briseis finally saw him, her face spasmed with more emotions than Patroclus could easily parse.

Patroclus didn’t have time to ponder. He nodded his head at the front entrance and mouthed _outside_. He needed to get Briseis out of the room, out of Achilles’ sight, and he needed to do it now. If Achilles weren’t so singularly focused on Paris, he would have seen Briseis already.  

Briseis hesitated, then nodded stiffly. She disappeared out the front entrance, slipping between the milling members of the Thracian delegation.

Patroclus bit his lip as he watched her go. This was the worst possible time to leave Achilles, but it would be worse if he didn’t go. In any event, Odysseus would stay with him. He could keep Achilles from snapping Paris’ neck with his bare hands. Probably.

Patroclus backed toward the wall, then pushed his way to the front entrance.

He slipped into the front yard. Guards were everywhere, both those in suits and those military uniform. Briseis was a point of stillness among the bustle. She waited by the frozen pond, her hair blown to and fro by the wind.

As he made his way over to her, Patroclus realized he’d left his jacket inside. His hat as well, and his gloves. His skin was already starting to burn. Briseis had not forgotten. She was fully kitted. Every piece of clothing she wore was either black or red.

Her eyes followed him until he stopped in front of her, his feet planted on the frosted grass.

They regarded each other in silence, each waiting for the other to speak first. The thing was, Patroclus didn’t have the time. Achilles could be feeding Paris his own hair at this very moment.

“I don’t know what to say,” he offered.

Briseis gripped the back of her neck with both hands and brought her elbows together in front of her. She tipped her head toward the slate gray sky, then let her hands fall.

“I’m not sorry,” she said. “He took everything from us. From me. Can you blame me for trying to take it back?”

Both her eyes and her voice begged for the answer to be _no_.

“I love you, Patroclus,” Briseis insisted. “More than anyone. I didn’t do this to hurt you. I did this because it feels right.”

Patroclus shook his head once. “And what is it you’re doing, Briseis?” He rubbed the red wool of her scarf between his fingers. “If you hadn’t noticed, we are now fighting on different sides of an _actual war_. We could end up killing each other.”

“It’s not the first time we’ve fought on different sides of a war,” she said. “We didn’t kill each other then, and we won’t kill each other now.”

“What about Achilles? Would you hurt him?”

Briseis touched her hand to her mouth before holding it in front of her, like she couldn’t believe what Patroclus was asking her. “You can’t see him for what he is.”

Why was everyone telling him that? “Would you?”

“This war with Thrace is history repeating.”

“Would you?”

Briseis made a noise like she was being strangled. “Fine,” she said clearly, “You want to know if I’d hurt him? If I could, I would go back in that room-” she jabbed her finger at the cabin “-and put a bullet in that psychopath myself. And you know what would happen if I did? If I killed the Scourge of Troy? The world would fucking thank me, Patroclus. They would shower me in confetti. They would throw parades in my honor. And Anatolia would be free of the fucking Greeks.” She ran a hand through her hair and tugged. “So don’t fucking tempt me.”

Patroclus stared at Briseis, wide-eyed. “I’m Greek.”

“I know,” she snapped. Then she clenched her hands into fists, visibly working to calm herself. She lowered her voice. “I know.”

A particularly strong gust of wind rattled the branches of the trees. The ice covering the thinnest branches crackled and snapped. Patroclus shivered.

“Listen,” Briseis said. “I serve directly under the Princes. Prince Hector – he’s an honorable man. And Prince Paris may be vain, but at least he’s sane, and he’s got Helen now. She’s smart. They’d be so much better for Anatolia than any of the Pelides. Better for you too.”

“Are you insinuating that Achilles-”

“Not Achilles,” she interrupted. “Well, yes, Achilles. But I’m talking about Thetis.” She leaned in closer. “We think she was behind that assassin. The one that stabbed you. We don’t know for sure, but it makes sense.”

Patroclus swallowed hard. “And why would she want to have me killed?”

 _No one will ever find your ashes_.

“Well, it wasn’t Menelaus,” Briseis answered. Her hands moved to encompass the movement around the cabin. “And isn’t this exactly what she wanted? Her little boy’s back in the saddle and you can’t do a thing to stop it because _you’re the reason_.”

Patroclus wrapped his arms around himself. He pretended it was because of the cold. Really, it was because Briseis had always been a good shot. “Then why are you out here talking to me?”

“Because you think everyone deserves to be cared about. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

“You love Anatolia more,” he accused.

“And you love Achilles more.” She stripped the glove from her right hand, stepped up to Patroclus, and put her hand on his cheek. Her skin was warm. “I’m trying not to hold it against you.”

Patroclus laid his hand on hers. He let it rest there for a moment, then laced his fingers through hers and tugged her hand down. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know about you,” Briseis said, a small smile appearing on her face, “but I blame that damn train car. I never understood why you were so fascinated by that thing.”

That made Patroclus laugh. “I miss you,” he said. “I really do.”

Briseis threw her arms around Patroclus. She hugged him tightly, and he hugged back just as hard.

“I miss you too,” she said into his chest. “You better take care of yourself.”

Just as Briseis finished speaking, a great cry rose from the cabin. Patroclus and Briseis both turned to look.

Their moment was over.

“I should get back,” Patroclus said. He frowned as another shout erupted from the cabin. “Achilles does not do well with Paris.”

“We know,” Briseis said, stepping back. “That’s why he’s here.”

Patroclus looked at Briseis sideways. He found all of his sadness reflected in her face. “You will never be my enemy,” he said. “But you shouldn’t go in. If Achilles sees you – you can’t let him see you. Stay out here. For me.”

Briseis sighed but nodded. “Fine. For you.”

Patroclus smiled his gratitude, his hand finding Briseis’. He tried not to think about the next time they’d see each other.

He was still holding Briseis’ hand when the cabin door slammed open.

Achilles stood in the doorway, the hand that pushed the door flung to the side. The white mist of his breath was like steam rising from a pot at full boil. Even from the pond, Patroclus could see him quivering.

When Achilles saw Briseis, his scream made the tree branches crack as surely as the wind.

 

* * *

 

It was a miracle they managed to wrestle Achilles into the car. 

“I’m going to KILL HER,” Achilles yelled, cracking his fist on the car door. He was fury incarnate. “Then I’m going to kill Paris, and then I’m going to KILL HER AGAIN.”

Patroclus made a grab for Achilles’ hands, but he missed. He looked to Odysseus, who was sitting on Achilles’ left, for help.

Odysseus only shook his head. “Nicolaides. Get us out of here.”

Linus, who was staring at Achilles from the front passenger seat, blinked hard. “But the driver-”

“Is now you,” Patroclus said to Linus. “Back to the airfield, please.”

Linus scooted over the center console, leaving Patroclus free to deal with Achilles.

He tried for Achilles again. This time he caught Achilles’ right arm in both of his, hugging the limb to his chest. He was well aware he only kept hold of the arm because Achilles let him.

“You’re not killing anyone,” Patroclus said, striving for calm.

“She betrayed you,” Achilles fumed. His arm shook under Patroclus’ hands. “I never liked her but I tolerated her because I thought she cared for you. She doesn’t, obviously. She would see Greece fall. She would see you dead. DEAD, Patroclus, she would fucking KILL YOU if she could.”

“She doesn’t want to kill me.”

Achilles threw his head back. The tendons in his neck were straining against his skin. “SHE’S A TRAITOR!”

“Stop shouting, Achilles,” Odysseus snapped. “We are four people in a car. We can all hear you.”

Achilles gritted his teeth, but he didn’t scream again. He took Patroclus’ face in his hands instead and leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

“How can you sit there like nothing’s happened?” Achilles said, voice quieter but trembling with the force of his feelings. “She’s fighting for the other side. _For Paris_.”

“I don’t know if there are sides anymore,” Patroclus said.

Achilles made a little noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob. “You’re my _therapon_. We’re supposed to be a side. And she wants to kill you. Which puts her on the other side.”

“If she wanted to kill me she would have done it already.”

“Me, then. She would kill me.”

Patroclus stayed silent. They both knew the answer to that one.

Achilles rubbed his thumbs across Patroclus’ cheek bones. “If you had to choose between her and me, who would you choose?”

The air fled from Patroclus’ lungs. _You_ , he wanted to say.

“He’s here, isn’t he?” Odysseus said first. Patroclus’ hands twitched. “Seems to me that he’s already chosen.”

“Then let me deal with this, Patroclus,” Achilles said. Instead of pulling back to look into Patroclus’ eyes, like he usually did when he got like this, he moved forward; he turned his face into Patroclus’ neck, slipped his arms around Patroclus’ waist, tried his best to make them into one person. “All of the Anatolians who’ve joined the Thracians. Briseis. Paris. They’ll be the death of us, if we let them. Or we can stop them now. I can stop them forever.”

Patroclus rubbed his cheek against Achilles’ hair. “I won’t let you kill her.”

“Please. I’m asking you because you like to be asked. Please. We can’t let them get away with this. Patroclus.”

Patroclus met Odysseus’ eyes over Achilles’ head. Odysseus raised an eyebrow at him: _what are you going to do?_

Patroclus closed his eyes. He pet Achilles’ hair with one hand, stroked his back with the other.

“No,” he said.


	16. husband

Shadows moved back and forth on the ceiling, cast by the light of a single lantern. Entangled as they were, Patroclus couldn’t make out where one ended and the next began. They became darker in the places they overlapped, forming diffraction patterns that he couldn’t understand. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to. Picking apart the differences that matter was an endlessly confusing task. Patroclus was ready to give it up, if only for the next half hour.

In the two weeks since they’d returned from Macedonia, he’d been thinking constantly. He’d been spending more time away from Achilles too. He’d stopped going out with Achilles’ squad, terrified that his next victim wouldn’t be an unfamiliar journalist but Briseis. Instead, Patroclus had taken to working in the field hospital. As a result, he usually saw Achilles at odd hours.

It was painful.

Achilles drew his hands across the length of Patroclus’ collar bones. Patroclus snapped his head back onto the pillow and let his eyes fall closed. Feelings came easier with closed eyes. The feel of Achilles’ soft mouth on his skin. Soft hair brushing his thigh. Warm, gentle hands moving across his chest and down his sides, slipping past each one of his ribs. Cool air pebbling his skin. The little hairs on his forearms rising. Vibrations humming out from Achilles’ throat, spilling across his body like ripples in a pond.

Air rushing into his lungs. Rough sheets scratching his back, his palms. Achilles’ voice dancing through his brain.

“Should I keep going?

“No.” Patroclus forced his eyes open, but let them focus on Achilles’ face. “I want to do something for you.”

The tip of Achilles’ tongue ran over his lips. “Really?”

“Yes. Anything you want.”

Achilles rested his cheek against Patroclus’ stomach. Patroclus felt him swallow. “Anything?”

“Yes.”  

“Okay,” Achilles said, biting his bottom lip.

Patroclus let his hand wander across Achilles’ scalp. Achilles leaned into it.

“You on top,” Achilles said softly. He looked Patroclus in the eye, then down to Patroclus’ stomach, then back to Patroclus’ face. His fingers beat a nervous rhythm against Patroclus’ skin. “Bare.”

Surprise stilled Patroclus’ hand.

“You said as long as we weren’t monogamous,” Achilles said. He shifted a bit, moved his body to cover more of Patroclus. “Well, I haven’t been with anyone else since before we left Anatolia. Have you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then we’re monogamous. Properly.”

Patroclus nodded slowly. It hadn’t occurred to him to put their situation in those terms, but Achilles was right. No Deidameia on the front. No third party. No impediments.

“So you will?” Achilles asked, a bit breathless. “You said anything. This is what I want.”

Patroclus had no reason not to do as Achilles asked. That felt good. Extraordinary, actually. Especially since, now that Achilles brought it up, Patroclus could think of nothing else he wanted more either.

He pulled Achilles up, then whispered his answer into those shining lips. “Okay.”

A brilliant smile burned across Achilles’ face. Patroclus could tell because he felt it.

Prep went quick. Neither of them wanted to linger on that part tonight. With that finished, they arranged themselves face to face. Achilles was on his back, knees bent. Patroclus was between Achilles’ knees. He held most of his weight on his arms, but let his belly dip to touch Achilles’.

“Ready?” Patroclus asked.

Achilles kissed him, then reached down to guide Patroclus in. He grunted as Patroclus pushed closer. Patroclus grunted too, his eyelids fluttering. The sensation was intense.

“Not gonna last,” he managed. 

“That’s okay,” Achilles said. Beads of sweat were beginning to gather on his forehead. “Just move.”

Patroclus did. On the first thrust, Achilles’s right hand latched onto Patroclus’ left bicep. As the moment rolled on, Achilles’ other hand snaked around Patroclus’ torso, pulling them together. He gripped tightly, his fingertips making little indents. Patroclus looked down, his eyes caught on the strain and quiver of Achilles’ shoulder muscles.

So much power there. So much power under him.

“Look at me,” Achilles said. He used his chin to tip Patroclus’ head up. “Look at me.”

He did. Achilles’ eyes were wide open. Patroclus barely had to move to bring their mouths together. Little noises floated between. It was so good. The best they’d ever had.

“Patroclus,” Achilles whispered. “Husband.”

Patroclus faltered.

“Keep going,” Achilles urged. His fingers dug harder into Patroclus’ arm, his back. He clung, heedless of the sweat. “Whatever I want. You promised.”

Patroclus kept going.

“Always like this,” Achilles said.

“Like this.”

“Like that,” Achilles said, louder. “Oh, like that. Come on, love.” He let go of Patroclus long enough to slide a hand between them. “Come on.”

Patroclus craned his neck until his lips just touched Achilles’. Their breath mingled. Skin too tight. Too much inside. Too much. Achilles, a flood, a tidal force, drawing energy from the movement of the earth itself.

He collapsed, shaking, onto Achilles’ chest. He felt laughter rumble through Achilles, the thunder after lightning. Cool rain after drought. Patroclus absorbed it. He felt it seep into his pores.

The flood winnowed down to a stream. It soothed him. He let his eyes fall shut. He felt Achilles’ heart beat, and his lungs inflate.

“Thank you for that,” Achilles said. His fingers carved through Patroclus’ curls, pressed solidly against his skull. “Do one more thing for me?”

Patroclus hummed.

“Let me protect us.”

Patroclus’ eyes flew open. He rolled to the side, his body coming unglued from Achilles’. His breath wasn’t back yet.

Achilles reached out to him. “Don’t–”

“You know my answer.”

Achilles sat up and waved his arm between the two of them. “What just happened was…didn’t that change anything?”

Yes. But that’s not what Achilles was really asking, and Patroclus could only answer the question at hand. That question was Briseis. And Paris, to a lesser extent.

“If you thought you could fuck me into letting you kill my friend,” Patroclus said. He sat up slowly, a tremor still working its way through his back muscles. “I’m going to disappoint you.”

“Why?”

“You really want to talk about this now?”

Achilles shifted and turned his head to side-eye Patroclus. One hand rubbed absently at the scar on his stomach. “Yes,” he said. “We’re open to each other.”

Patroclus got up and put on the pants he’d discarded earlier. “Fine,” he said. “How about this? I’ll tell you why I won’t let you kill Briseis when you tell me why you won’t listen to me about your mother.”

“Because the accusation is stupid,” Achilles said. He said it with a good amount of condescension too. Patroclus bristled. “Briseis was obviously lying. Where’s the proof beyond her word? She wants to make me weak, that’s all.”

Technically, Achilles had a point. Briseis had offered no proof, she was fighting for an opposing army, and she did loathe Achilles and Thetis both. All Patroclus had was his trust in Briseis. That, and his utter conviction that Thetis was definitely capable of putting out a hit on Patroclus and blaming it on Menelaus.

“Thetis has threatened me before,” Patroclus tried.

Achilles slapped his hands against his thighs. “Damn it, Patroclus. She’s my mother, not a cartoon villain. She’s brilliant, sure, and she’s always picked up my father’s slack. She does what’s necessary to keep Greece strong when my father can’t. But if you think my mother masterminded a secret plot to assassinate her son’s _therapon_ to start a war that could swallow half the continent, you’re giving her too much credit. And what about when we met, Patroclus? When I took a knife to the stomach? Was that her too?”

Fish would climb out of the sea before Thetis deliberately harmed Achilles in that particular way.

“No,” Patroclus said. “I don’t think that was her.”

Achilles leapt to his feet.

“You’re trying to confuse me,” he said. “Briseis and Paris and the other Anatolians who want Greece to burn. They’re the real threat. They need to pay for what they’ve done to us. Or Greece will never be safe. You will never be safe.”

Patroclus shook his head, trying to gather what words he could. Achilles had used the good of Greece to justify himself for as long as Patroclus had known him. To a certain extent, it was true. This, however, was not about the good of Greece. This was personal. This was Thetis’ influence: identify the threat, crush it into powder so fine it can never threaten you again.

A grim expression settled over Achilles’ face at Patroclus’ silence. “I tried to do this the right way, Patroclus. I asked. I tried to make you see sense. But I cannot allow Greece to rise and fall on the strength of your personal attachment to a traitor.”

An ominous ringing started inside Patroclus’ skull.

“I’ve been working with Phoenix on a strike plan. We’re going after Paris and the units under his command. I want his head, Patroclus. If I see Briseis fighting for him, I’ll kill her myself.”

Patroclus shook his head again, his mouth hanging open. “Are you serious?”

Achilles’ softened a bit. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but you’ve been so busy with the hospital,” he said. “This isn’t up to you now. You didn’t have a hand in it, so no guilt required. You don’t have to go either. I made sure. I’ll take care of everything.”

Oh, no. Just no. 

“Are you going after Hector too?” Patroclus asked. He spotted a shirt on the floor, about a foot away. He snatched it up, put it on.

The question caught Achilles off guard. “Yes. Of course.”

“Do you realize you haven’t said his name once?” Patroclus pushed. “It’s Paris and Briseis, Paris and Briseis. You only talk about them. About getting back at them. And then you try to tell me this is all for the good of Greece? That your personal feelings don’t come into it? That you don’t want to destroy them because they threaten your legacy, or whatever?”

“It’s not about getting back at anyone!”

“I. Don’t. Believe. You.” Patroclus punctuated each word with a thrust of his finger into his palm. “We’ve known about the Anatolians for months. No action, no nothing. Until now. This is not a strategy. This is your damn fool pride.”

“Is not!”

“Yes, it is!”

Achilles screamed.

Then he fell to his knees, strings cut.

“I don’t know what to say,” Achilles said. He sounded as tired as Patroclus felt. “I’m not lying. I don’t lie.”

Achilles didn’t lie, but he didn’t see clearly either. Patroclus was supposed to see for him. To show him that he was about to kill hundreds of people as part of a personal vendetta. Just because Achilles dressed it up in the garb of patriotic duty – a move that conveniently allowed him to satisfy his rage with glory – didn’t make it right.

Briseis was going to fight for Paris and Hector. There was no way she wouldn’t. And Achilles was going to kill her.

There was no way he wasn’t.

Feeling heavy, Patroclus went to his knees too, just in front of Achilles. Achilles’ bare legs barely brushed the tip of Patroclus’ own.

“Please, Achilles,” he said. Begged. He took Achilles’ hands in his. “Stop this.”

Achilles’ hands tensed in his. “Do you care about the other Anatolians? Or just her?”

“All of them. But especially her.”

Achilles drew a shaky breath. “I don’t believe you,” he whispered. Patroclus’ heart contracted. “I called you husband. I _meant_ that. I mean it. I love you, Patroclus. I _love_ you. Please try to understand why I have to do this. They are standing between me and everything I ever wanted. Everything will be so much better after this is done.”

Patroclus clutched at Achilles. “This won’t fix anything. Not one thing, Achilles.”

“It’s all I can do.”

“That’s not true,” Patroclus insisted. “Put a stop to this. We’ll figure something else out.”

Achilles’ hands fell to his knees. His eyes glistened darkly in the lantern’s light. When he spoke, his voice held the anguished helplessness of a lost child. “You’re choosing her over me.”

“I’m not,” Patroclus said, horrified. “Don’t think that. Don’t you ever think that.”

“But it’s true,” Achilles whispered. The darkness in his eyes solidified, took form, and fell. “She would kill me, kill us. She would have my name stricken from history. With Paris on her side, she might succeed. And you don’t care. You don’t care, and you won’t let me stop her. You don’t trust me. You would rather I die than her.”

“No,” Patroclus said. “No, no. Of course not.”

“It’s too late anyway,” Achilles continued. He wiped snot from his upper lip with the back of his hand. Patroclus could only watch, eyes wide. “Even if I could stop it now, I wouldn’t. This needs to be done, and I want to do it. You’re the one who’s always telling me I should do what I want to do, and not what other people want me to do. I want you, and I want us, and I want to keep Greece strong, and I want people to know it was me that saved them.”

Achilles cradled Patroclus’ cheeks in his hands. “You’ve been saving me from myself since we met. Now it’s my turn to save you.”

Patroclus grabbed onto Achilles’ wrists, but didn’t answer. What was left to say? He couldn’t reason with Achilles. That was clear.

“You don’t hate me, do you?” Achilles asked.

Patroclus shook his head no. No universe existed where Patroclus could hate Achilles, no matter what Achilles did. Even now, Achilles thought he was doing the right thing. He believed with all his heart. Patroclus could not hate him for that.

“Good,” Achilles said. “Do you still love me?”

Patroclus nodded.

Achilles offered a small, relieved smile. “Good.” He pulled Patroclus in for a hug, and Patroclus let him. The material of his shirt stuck to the sweat on Achilles’ bare chest. “This is a rough patch. A fight. All people in relationships have them. Chiron said so. But we’re stronger. What we just had together…there is nothing else.”

“I know,” Patroclus said. He closed his eyes, squeezed Achilles in his arms. “I love you.”

“So that’s a yes?” asked Achilles. “I’ve convinced you? I have your blessing?”

“Yes,” said Patroclus. “Yes. Do what you will.”

“I knew it’d be good to talk about this now,” Achilles said. “I knew we’d get past this.”

“Just tell me when.”

Achilles sat back on his heels, eyes sparkling. “Two days.”

 

* * *

 

Before breakfast the next day, Patroclus cornered Odysseus outside the mess. He elbowed Odysseus into the narrow space between two prefab buildings. He didn’t bother with gentleness.

“You could have just asked,” Odysseus said lightly. He rubbed his arm with deliberate ostentation. “I see Achilles has finally shared the good news.”

Light, misty rain was collecting in little drops on Patroclus’ lashes. He blinked quickly.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Odysseus said. Then he smirked. “There’s a chance the entire camp didn’t hear you two going at it last night, but the odds aren’t great.”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I grew up with Achilles. I know he’s a screamer.”

Patroclus had Odysseus shoved against the plastic wall of one of the buildings before he could process the impulse. When he realized how tightly his forearm was pressing against Odysseus’ throat, he backed off. Slightly.

Odysseus wheezed. “What’s this?”

“Shut up,” Patroclus said.

“You’re the one who dragged me here,” Odysseus protested. He twisted under Patroclus’ arm, a scowl on his face.

Seeing the red mark on Odysseus’ skin gave Patroclus a moment of profound pleasure.

“Shut up,” Patroclus said again. “I need a copy of the mission plans.”

Odysseus crossed his arms over his chest. “Ask Achilles.”

“I did,” Patroclus said. The muddy ground squelched against his heels every time he took a step. “He doesn’t want to show me. Says it’s better if I’m not involved. He doesn’t want me to feel responsible for it.”

Odysseus raised an eyebrow. Patroclus absolutely hated when he did that.

“If he doesn’t want you to have the plans, who am I to contradict him?”

Patroclus glanced to the side. None of the passing soldiers were looking their way, but there was no guarantee that wouldn’t change.

“Because you’re his friend,” Patroclus said, looking back. “You’ve known him for years, and you know what it’s like to care about him. I just want to know he’s not going to get himself killed.” He paused for a moment. “Besides, I already feel responsible. This is Achilles being his usual stubborn self.”

Odysseus considered him through narrowed eyes. “You’re not lying,” he said slowly. He used the heel of his boot to lever himself away from the wall. “But you’re not telling the truth. Go back to your _therapon_ , Patroclus. I’m sure he needs you for something.”

Patroclus’ heart sped up as Odysseus made to leave. He needed those plans, and he needed them soon. He needed something to barter with. What did he have that Odysseus wanted?

A memory drifted to the front of Patroclus’ thoughts: Odysseus on the day they met, upbraiding him for failing Achilles. Patroclus took a deep breath. Now that he’d thought of it, he wondered why he hadn’t before. It was perfect.

“Wait!” Patroclus said, catching Odysseus’ arm.

“Miss me already?” Odysseus shook Patroclus off. “Whatever you’re up to, I want no part in it. I’m Achilles’ friend, not yours. Stop wasting my time. Unlike you, I have a mission to prepare for.”

“Exactly,” Patroclus said quickly. He slid in front of Odysseus, blocking the way out. “You want what’s best for Achilles. I do too. So let’s coordinate.”

Odysseus sighed, exasperated. “What?”

“You get me the mission plans, I’ll ask Achilles to make you _therapon_. Officially.”

A conspicuous silence emerged in their little alley. Patroclus could hear not only the squelching of his own boots in the mud, but the squelching of everyone passing behind him. He could smell the mud too. It smelled sweet and rotten.

Odysseus broke the silence. “You’re mad.”

“I’m completely serious.”

“You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Patroclus said, before amending himself in the face of Odysseus’ skepticism. “Well, you irritate me. That doesn’t change the fact that Achilles needs more people in his life. More than just me and Thetis. When you’re _therapon_ , he’ll have to make you a bigger part of his life. And since I’m not running combat missions with the squad anymore, I’d feel better knowing he has someone devoted to him.”

“I’m already devoted to him,” Odysseus said, sharp as winter grass.

“I know,” Patroclus said. He blew his breath out through his nose. “I need to see those plans, Odysseus. I need to see them to read between the lines. I need to know he’s not going to blow you off and go after Paris in a fit of stupidity. I need him to be okay. That’s all. You as a _therapon_ would be two birds, really.”

Odysseus cocked his head, then scratched his bearded jaw. “Does Achilles want me as _therapon_? He’s never said anything.”

Patroclus had him.

“That’s because he was bound and determined to be alone.” Patroclus pressed forward. “He’s not anymore. He likes you and he values your opinion. Believe me, Achilles wants you. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Odysseus’ tongue ran over his top lip. A smile was starting to form on his face, a real one. “Deal. I’ll give you the plans as soon as Achilles tells me I’m _therapon_.” He held out his hand.

Patroclus shook it. “We have a deal.”

 

* * *

 

Achilles was easy.

Patroclus found him in the mess. Noise echoed throughout the large, open room, a riot of sound. Achilles was sitting with Ajax and Dionne. A piece of bread with jam on it was half way to his mouth.

He nodded at Ajax and Dionne. “Good morning.”

“Hey,” said Achilles. He looked pleased. “I didn’t think I’d see you this morning.”

Patroclus gave the best smile he could. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Achilles took a bite of the bread before following him to a quieter place near the back of the mess.

“What’s up?” Achilles asked. He looked particularly handsome today, his eyes the same forest green as his shirt. He was glowing. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

“Definitely not,” Patroclus said. A few curious eyes were turning in their direction. Patroclus tried to ignore them and speak softly. “I was thinking though. Since I don’t go with you on missions anymore, it would ease my mind if you had someone to look out for you. And after the thing last night…I want you to have someone you can go to if you can’t go to me.”

A line appeared between Achilles’ eyes. “What are you saying?”

Patroclus laid his hand on Achilles’ arm. “I want you to take another _therapon_.”

Achilles blossomed. It made Patroclus’ chest ache. “Yeah?”

“I was thinking of Odysseus,” said Patroclus. “It would be good for you. And for us.” He paused. “Unless you have a problem with it, of course.”

Achilles pressed his palms together, the tips of his fingers touching the tip of his nose. “Now that you mention it, it’s a great idea. Odysseus has been loyal to me since forever. I wouldn’t mind him.” He looked at Patroclus through his lashes. “I thought you hated him though. If I made him _therapon_ he’d be spending a lot more time with us.”

“I don’t hate him,” Patroclus muttered. “Why do people keep saying that?”

Achilles gave him a fond smile. “Alright then. If it will make you happy.”

He made to pull away, but Patroclus stopped him with a kiss. Achilles’ lips tasted like figs. It must have been fig jam on Achilles’ bread.

“See,” Achilles said after they’d separated. “Things are better already. I’ll ask Odysseus as soon as I see him. Everything will work out.”

Patroclus conjured a closed-mouth smile.

 

* * *

 

That night after dinner, Odysseus handed Patroclus a black USB stick.

“Take your time,” Odysseus said. “Achilles will be with me in Phoenix’s tent ‘til late. I’ll pick up the USB when we’re done.”

“Great,” Patroclus said. He couldn’t muster any enthusiasm, but he doubted Odysseus knew the real reason why. “Thanks.”

“No problem, brother _therapon_ ,” Odysseus said.

They stared at each other for a few long seconds. Patroclus’ gut churned with sickening speed.

“Take care of him,” Patroclus said.

Odysseus brows came together quizzically. “I always do,” he said.

Patroclus nodded slowly. “Good.”

“Okay, then,” Odysseus said. He turned awkwardly. “I’m going now. See you later.”

“See you.”

Odysseus walked, whistling, into the cold, wet night. Patroclus watched him until he disappeared between the tents and prefab buildings.

Then, USB in hand, he went back to the tent he shared with Achilles. He walked as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself.

Once inside, he stuffed some clothes into a duffel. That done, he fished the satellite phone out of Achilles’ pack. He had the number he needed written on a piece of paper he’d been carrying in his pocket all day. One of the administrative staff had given it to him. They’d had the correct number since the prisoner exchange on New Year’s.

Patroclus dialed the number with shaking hands. This was the point of no return. No going back after this.

He’d lied. He’d lied all last night and all of today. He’d never said he didn’t lie. Achilles may have been beyond prevarication, but Patroclus was not.

Achilles would never speak to him again.

The call went through. Patroclus could hear ringing. A voice came over the line.

“You’ve reached the office of the royal family of Anatolia, Ermes speaking. How may I help you?”

Patroclus took a lingering look at his and Achilles’ bed. Was he really doing this?

“Hello?”

Briseis was his friend. Achilles would be fine without him, but Briseis wouldn’t. He could do this. He had to.

It was the right thing to do.

“Yes, hello. My name is Patroclus Menoitiades. I need to speak to Prince Hector. Right away.”


	17. good guys

Hector Priamides was the real deal.

He walked into the room alone. He was a solid man. Broad shoulders. Broad jaw. Muscled arms. Dimpled chin. He had a few days’ worth of stubble darkening his cheeks, and his hair was combed back from his face. Though he wasn’t smiling, the wrinkles at his eyes and mouth conveyed a warm and care Patroclus didn’t expect. Where Achilles was the raging flood, Hector was the granite at the base of the mountain.

He took the seat across from Patroclus, dark eyes steady. Patroclus could only bear the scrutiny for a moment before he had to look away.

“Well,” Hector said. He laid his hands on the table, palms down. “I would be lying if I said this wasn’t a surprise.”

The conference room they’d put him in when he’d arrived seemed to be getting smaller. Patroclus bit the inside of his cheek.

“I wanted to thank you, Patroclus,” Hector said. He hesitated, then asked, “Can I call you Patroclus?”

Patroclus nodded tightly.

Hector pursed his lips. The expression made him look thoughtful rather than annoyed. “Alright,” he said. “I wanted to thank you in person. What you did took courage. A lot of good people are alive today because of you. Anatolia still has a chance.”

They’d taken Patroclus’ clothes when he’d got to Messembria and given him the ones he was wearing. Dark blue drawstring pants with no pockets. Long sleeve shirt, soft and white. Socks. Underwear. Most of it at least a size too big. The shirt’s sleeves reached half way across his palms. Ideal for the nervous picker.

Patroclus plucked at the sleeve.

Hector sat back, his chin lifting. “If you’re thinking I’ll force you to fight your former _therapon_ ,” he said carefully. “You needn’t worry. I’m not cruel, and I tend not to pursue futile endeavors.”

Patroclus frowned. Of course he wouldn’t fight against Achilles. In the uncertain wreck that was his life, his desire to protect Achilles in any way he still could was his only certainty.

“You care for him a great deal,” Hector said. "I can see it."

Patroclus blinked.

Hector rubbed a hand across his brow. “And he’s obsessed with you. Took you as _therapon_ the day after he met you. I could hardly believe it when I received word. Then he forcibly moved you into the Royal Palace not a week later. That, now, I could believe. If he ever…forced you…in any other way, you can tell me. We could add that to his charges, get someone down here for you to talk to.”

The allegation was enough to jar him out of his silence. Patroclus had to come to Achilles’ defense. “That’s not how it happened.” The roughness of his voice grated against his throat. That didn’t stop him from speaking harshly and emphatically. “He never made me do anything I didn’t want.”

Hector held out his hands, palms up. “Okay. I know how it goes. You can’t control how you feel. Paris is a handful, and I love him. Then there’s my wife, Andromache. My son, Scamandrius. I would do absolutely anything for them. I love my people as well. I’m honored to serve them.” He folded his hands together. “Do you know where my wife is from, Patroclus?”

Patroclus shook his head.

“A lovely little town called Thebes,” Hector said, sounding both angry and sad. “It used to lie in northwest Anatolia. I say _used to_ because Thebes no longer exists. It was destroyed when the Greeks first occupied Anatolia. Andromache was not there at the time, thank the stars, but her family was. Her mother, her father, her three brothers. Prince Achilles didn’t kill them right away. He needed them, you see, so he marched them to Canakkale first. You’ve heard what happened there, yes?”

Briseis had been at Canakkale. Patroclus redoubled his assault on the shirt sleeve. 

“Patroclus,” Hector said. Patroclus had to admire the way he spoke. There was something compelling about him. It wasn’t that he expected obedience. He expected engagement. He expected more. “Patroclus. Look at me.”

Feeling helpless, Patroclus looked at Hector. He blinked some more. Hector’s face blurred, and Patroclus fought it the tears back.

“I won’t pretend to know what you’re feeling right now. What I do know is, whatever your feelings are, you did the right thing. You’ve thrown your lot in with those fighting against oppression. In light of your defection, King Tyndareus and myself have issued you pardons for your crimes against Thrace and Anatolia.”

Was Patroclus a defector? It didn’t feel true.

Hector pushed on. He leaned forward, his eyes kind. “I never thought I’d be in this situation. I never thought my country would be stolen, my people slaughtered and subjugated. This is where we are though, and I will do what is right. Do you understand what that means?”

Patroclus nodded. No one understood better. That’s why he’d left Achilles with Odysseus. Odysseus would do a better job protecting Achilles than Patroclus ever had.

Hector gave him one firm nod. “That’s that then.” He stood up. “After I leave, you’ll be taken to a secure location. You’ll be confined there until further notice. We’ll revisit your situation later.” A small smile crossed Hector’s face. “In the meantime, you’ll be allowed visitors. I have a loyal soldier who’s eager to see you. Lieutenant Lyrnessus personally vouched for you. She’s a big part of why you’re not going from this room to a prison cell.”

Hector took one more look around the conference room, then turned to go. Before he closed the door behind him, he caught Patroclus’ eye again.

“And Patroclus?” he said. Strength and goodness shone from him. Hector was the real deal. Everything a prince should be. “You’re one of the good guys now. Welcome to the team.”

As the door clicked shut, Patroclus lost the battle. He pushed his sleeves to his cheeks, careful to catch each tear as it fell.

 

* * *

 

Patroclus was moved to a suite of rooms not terribly dissimilar from those he shared with Achilles in Troy. Money bred similarity, apparently. There was a sitting room, a kitchen with nothing in it, a bedroom. A free standing tub the approximate size of the Mediterranean crouched in the bathroom. A closet full of clothes, all made for lounging. A television, but no computer and no phone.

He also didn’t know where the rooms were. They’d covered his eyes before they’d taken him from the conference room. They were in or around Messembria, for sure. Patroclus just didn’t know where.

Part of him hoped Briseis would be there when he was pushed through the doors. She wasn’t.

In lieu of anything better to do, Patroclus turned on the television. He paused when he caught sight of himself. A woman’s voice spoke over footage of him and Achilles at the prisoner exchange.

 _“…the death knell of the Greek war effort? The Thracian government and Anatolian government-in-exile released a joint statement this morning confirming the defection of Patroclus Menoitiades,_ therapon _of Prince Achilles of Greece. Though Menoitiades’ reasons for defecting are not clear at this time, sources close to the Anatolian royal family report Menoitiades brought with him critical intelligence regarding Greece’s battle strategy. The Greek government has yet to comment…”_

Patroclus shut the television off, dragged himself to the bedroom, and made himself sleep.

 

* * *

 

Seconds crawled by. Someone came in with food three times a day. Other than that there was no one. In spite of what Hector had told him, Briseis had yet to visit.

For his part, Patroclus felt like a person in theory only. His life had become two-dimensional. The world was flat, and so was he. It felt like he was numb, submerged in frigid water and looking at what was left of his world through a blue, mostly opaque sheet of ice. Sometimes he would lay on the floor and hold his hands above him. He would pretend he was pushing against something monstrously heavy.  

The rest of his time was spent running circles around his own mind. He spent his waking hours oscillating wildly between bitter regret and sickening guilt. It was getting harder and harder to break himself out of the cycle. Sometimes he could convince himself that he’d had good reason. He played Hector’s words back to himself and tried to envision Briseis. Achilles would have killed her.

Patroclus held his knees tight and repeated the worlds, a desperate mantra: Achilles would have killed her. Achilles would have killed her.

But it wasn’t enough. Patroclus was too alone to stand against the onslaught of his own anguish.

How was Achilles? Patroclus wasn’t sure he had the right to know. What would he say if he ever saw Achilles again? As far as apologies went, saying _I’m sorry_ seemed laughable. Patroclus should have left a note. He should have left an explanation. He’d been so intent on sneaking out of the camp – a disturbing simple task, when it came right down to it – that he hadn’t thought to leave a note. Would it have made a difference? Did Achilles hate him?

Achilles hated him.

Achilles hated him, and Patroclus hadn’t thought this through. He’d panicked. What he’d done was so much more than ruining the operation to kill the Anatolian leadership.

He knew because of the television. Patroclus should have known better than to turn it back on. If he couldn’t handle ten seconds of cable news when he first arrived, why would he be able to handle it any better five days later? However, like a fool and after too many hours curled up alone on the bed, Patroclus caved. He’d wanted some indication that Achilles was alright. That’s all.

Instead he found a barrage of ugliness, half-truths, and untruths. His so-called defection was being spun as an all-out attack on Achilles’ character. The newscasters were relentless. Achilles couldn’t keep his own _therapon_ by his side. Achilles’ actions were so reprehensible his _therapon_ abandoned him. Achilles’ own people were afraid of him. Achilles was running the Greek war effort into the ground.

And some of the worst: Patroclus was conspiring with Tyndareus and Hector to kill Achilles. Patroclus had turned coat on the condition that he be allowed to kill Achilles himself. That one hurt.

Paris was a frequent sight. Always dressed in dried-blood red, he was in his element. This was the kind of warfare Paris excelled at. With righteous fury and smug satisfaction, he denounced Achilles, denounced Thetis, denounced Greece, and praised Patroclus to the rafters.

When Paris called Patroclus a _true friend and honorable man_ , Patroclus pressed his hands over his ears until all he could hear was blood.

No Achilles though. No video of him cursing Patroclus’ name. No statement from him disavowing any connection with his former _therapon_. No indication of how he was feeling or what he was doing. Just a written statement form the Pelides family confirming that Patroclus was no longer employed by the Greek armed forces.

As far as the television could report, Achilles hadn’t gone on any murderous rampages. He hadn’t set the world ablaze. He hadn’t demanded Patroclus’ head on a stick. He hadn’t demanded Patroclus back either. It was radio silence from Achilles’ camp.

Patroclus felt terrible in the face of Achilles’ silence, though it wasn’t the silence itself that had him tangled up in knots. Of course not. This was what Patroclus had encouraged from the start; an Achilles who thought before he fought.

What had Patroclus digging his fingers into his own stomach was his reaction to Achilles’ silence. In spite of everything he knew about Achilles, Patroclus would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised. And that surprised part of him – Patroclus couldn’t get rid of it. He couldn’t find it inside of himself. He didn’t know where it was, only that it was there, lurking in whatever part of him was incapable of keeping faith.

The feelings were an assault. It was too much. Yet, Patroclus couldn’t close the door once he’d opened it. He moved from the couch to the floor, curled himself in the chair, paced between the sitting room and the kitchen, slept in fits and starts. And through it all, the television stayed on.

Patroclus stayed on too, because he couldn’t shut anything off.

Who was he kidding, really? He was in the throes of a real break down, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since he was a child. He was useless like this, but he couldn’t pull himself out of it. It’d been a week since he’d walked out of the Greek base and into the waiting arms of the Thracians. Since then he hadn’t been able to get the image of their helicopter out of his head. It had flown as it approached, a tactic used to evade Greek detection.

A helicopter flying low is never good news.

And now he was asking himself, over and over: did he make a mistake?

The world swayed on its stem. Once, Patroclus thought he could pluck it, but every breath makes the sun slide from room to room. Was there any way to tell the difference between day and night? Patroclus looked at the ceiling from the corner of his eye. It was a trick of light and water, maybe, that he saw figs dangling from the ceiling like loose light bulbs.

What were the rules for this?

Patroclus pressed his cheek into the white rug under the sitting room furniture. He hugged himself to try to stop the shaking. He was crying again. The television blasted in the background.

“Patroclus.”

Patroclus couldn’t lift his head, but he did shift his eyes. A dark, blurry person was outlined against the rooms’ double doors. She lifted her hand.

“Oh, love.”

And then his cheek was no longer on the floor, but flush with Briseis’ neck. Briseis arms were around him too, holding him together like he couldn’t. She was here. She was alive and here and Achilles was going to kill this person. Achilles would have killed this person.

“You saved me,” Briseis whispered into his hair. She held him tighter, which made him cry harder. The crying finally felt like release. “You saved me. You saved me.”

Patroclus grasped her shirt, and began to take great, gasping breaths. One thing was all he needed. One good thing.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” she said. Patroclus felt her grasping for something. The television turned off. “I fought to get here. I fought, but Paris…I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Patroclus nodded into her neck. Sorry didn’t mean anything, but he was sore enough to feel everything anyway. Imagine wanting to make someone _more_ empathetic.

Briseis helped him stand, then took his hand. “Let’s go into the bedroom, yeah? Have a nap.”

Patroclus followed her into the bedroom. He fell asleep with his hands holding tight to hers.

 

* * *

 

He woke up to Briseis’ dark eyes running over his face.

“Feeling any better?” she asked.

At this point, Patroclus had given his resilience up to the universe, but he knew what Briseis meant. He felt calmer.

He gathered himself and nodded.

“We have some time to talk,” she said, smiling a bit. “But maybe you should wash up first? I brought something for you to eat. I’ll heat it up while you shower.”

Patroclus swung his legs over the side of the bed. He wondered how long they’d slept. Exhaustion weighed his limbs down, and his head. His neck wanted to droop, so he let it. His muscles felt soft, like noodles in a pot.

Briseis crossed to him and helped him to his feet.

“Need help?” she asked. Her hand was soft on his arm.

Did he? He contemplated the question for a moment.

“Please, Patroclus.” Briseis tipped his chin up. “Please say something. You’re scaring me.”

Patroclus cleared his throat the best he could. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no. Don’t apologize. Not to me. Not ever.”

“I did this for you. Because it wasn’t right what he wanted.”

“Yes,” Briseis said. Her voice was thick. “I’m so proud of you.”

“He must hate me. I love him, but he hates me.”

Briseis flinched. Patroclus wondered if he’d sounded too hollow.

“He’ll never talk to me again. I’ve lost him.”

As he spoke the words, he realized the depth to which they were true. This was loss. Achilles was lost to him, and now he was in mourning. The waves were towering and overpowering, and Patroclus kept getting swept off his feet. He’d lost Achilles, and he was coming undone.

Next came transformation.

Briseis grabbed his chin to catch his attention. “I love you so much. You are my family. I want you to know that as long as I’m alive, you are not alone. I also want you to know that you’ve absolutely made the right choice. Please do not go back to him because you’re having a tough time right now.”

She let his chin go and took a deep breath. “That being said, you’re wrong about one thing. He does want to talk to you.

“What?”

“I’m not here as friend only,” Briseis said. “I’m also messenger. Achilles is releasing every prisoner the Greeks have. In exchange, he only demanded one thing.”

Patroclus’ heart started to beat faster. “What?”

“He wants to speak with you. In person. Alone.”

Patroclus dropped onto the bed. Briseis came with him, worried and angry.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” she said. “But we don’t have much of a choice. It’s too good a deal to pass up. You’ll have to stay strong.”

She was speaking like they were on one side and Achilles was on the other. That’s what Achilles had done too. Did Briseis ever run from anything? Achilles pretended like he never ran, but Patroclus knew better.

“When?”

“Tomorrow. Are you up to it? I can’t get you out of it, but I could get it postponed. Maybe.”

“No. No, I’ll do it.”

Patroclus wanted some indication that Achilles was alright. That was all. And Achilles deserved the chance to do…whatever it was Achilles wanted to do with him.

What was lost was lost.


	18. glass shattered

Patroclus’ mom was sick for a long time before she died. When he was older, Patroclus realized she must have known when the end was coming. She ended treatment, hired a nurse, and came home.

Frightened and unfamiliar with loss, Patroclus tried everything he could to make her better. He asked the cook to help him make pantespani and pasteli for her. He read to her, sang for her, and held her hand. He asked their housekeeper for the pieces of a vase he’d broken the year before. The vase had been beautiful and old, a gift from his mother’s mother to her only daughter. His mom had cried when she found it broken. Patroclus wanted to glue the pieces back together.

His mom soaked up his love and responded each time with a little smile. Those smiles were the part of his mom he remembered best. “My dear boy,” she’d say with that little smile. “I feel better already.”

He’d loved and loved and loved her. Poured out his love with every fiber of his seven-year-old heart, his seven-year-old lungs and hands.

She died anyway. Alone. At night, while Patroclus slept.

Looking at the house in front of him, shrouded in Macedonian winter, something occurred to Patroclus that he’d never considered before: if love could have saved his mom, she would have been saved.

“Patroclus,” Hector said. “Pelides is inside. You can go in when you’re ready.”

Patroclus nodded, centering himself in the present. They’d done the last prisoner exchange here too. Macedonia. Neutral territory. Of course, then he’d been with Achilles and Odysseus. This time he’d flown in with Hector and Paris. Briseis stayed behind because Patroclus asked her to. Patroclus didn’t know if Achilles would do anything if he saw her, but he didn’t want to take the chance.    

The people were different, and so was the house. This one was modern rather than rustic: floor to ceiling windows, cement, metal, two stories. It sat on the banks of a sluggish little river. Same naked trees though. Same horrid snow.

Patroclus stared at the house. Achilles was in there somewhere. Waiting.

“It’ll just be the two of us?” Patroclus asked.

“That’s right,” Hector said. “No time limit either. Those were his stipulations. We had a few of our own.”

Hector pressed a keychain with a button on it into Patroclus’ hand. Ever clumsy, Patroclus’ fumbled the keychain and dropped it in the dirty snow.

“Take it,” Hector said. Patroclus picked up the keychain and put it in his pocket. “Keep it handy. Push it and I’ll come get you, personally. Deal or no deal. That man has taken enough from you.”

“Okay,” Patroclus said.

He wasn’t going to push the button. Whatever Achilles wanted to do was alright with him.

“I mean it,” Hector said, then nodded toward the group of Greeks standing off to the left. “They don’t look too friendly.”

Patroclus glanced over at the Greeks, his countrymen and women. Some of the soldiers were guarding the prisoners who’d be handed over after the meeting. Some were talking on phones or talking to Macedonian go-betweens. Many of the Greeks were glaring at Patroclus.

Foremost among them was Odysseus. Achilles’ new _therapon_ stood at the edge of the Greek group, face stony, hand stroking the knife at his belt.

“You’re doing us a favor here,” Hector said, drawing Patroclus’ attention back to himself. “You’re putting yourself on the line for us. I appreciate that. Anatolia is behind you.”

“Thanks,” Patroclus said. No use waiting around. The eagerness and dread combined would kill him before Odysseus had the chance. “I’ll just go in then.”

Hector nodded once. “I know this is hard. You’re a good man, Patroclus.”

To keep himself from arguing the point, Patroclus started up the drive to the house. He made it half way before Paris joined him. Paris grabbed his elbow, stopping him.

“I wanted to say good luck,” Paris said. He’d left his Anatolian red behind today in favor of utilitarian combat gear, his curly hair tucked under a helmet. A rifle hung over his shoulder.

“Why?” A pause. “Prince.”

Paris shrugged. “You’re a friend of a friend. You’re providing a great service to the Anatolian people. You’re facing down a violent, imperialist evil. Hector may be our parents’ favorite, but he’s not the only one who knows how to show appreciation for your sacrifice.”

Patroclus frowned, confused. Paris had never spoken to him directly before, and he certainly wasn’t known for being appreciative. "My sacrifice?"

“You’re doing more for the Anatolian cause tonight than you know,” Paris said. He smiled, but his eyes turned flinty. “Take your time in there. Give my regards to Pelides.”

Patroclus’ dead intensified. Not that he could do anything about it.

“You better get going,” Paris said. He waved his hand at the house. “Pelides isn’t a patient prince. We don’t want him mad. Or, madder than he already is, I should say.”

Patroclus had no idea what to do with Paris’ words, but he did know he wanted the conversation to end. He resumed his trudge up the drive and didn’t look back. There were more important things than Paris.  

He approached the house quickly, hesitating briefly at the front door. Like most of the house, the door was made of glass. He could see himself reflected in it. Patroclus shifted his eyes to the door handle. Now was not the time to be a coward. He owed this to Achilles, and he wanted to see Achilles again, even if it was just the once. He wanted Achilles.

Steeling himself, Patroclus slid the door to the side and stepped into the house. The winter sun was just setting, casting long shadows on the row of pale cupboards to the right. Just in front of him was the kitchen, and to the left was the living room. The living room, which was separated from the kitchen by a barrier of built-in shelves, overlooked the river. Behind the river, the setting sun set the sky on fire.

Achilles was nowhere to be seen. The house was dead quiet.

Stairs built with metal and glass sat against the wall on the other side of the living room. They must lead to the second floor. Patroclus closed the door behind him, his heart thumping painfully. Blood rushed through him. It sounded like the ocean. He crossed the room.

The stair’s metal banister was cool against his hand as he emerged onto the second floor landing. It was darker up here, the western light partially blocked. Four doors could be accessed from the landing. Only one door, the one on the far left, stood open. Patroclus went inside.

It was a bedroom. The room faced west and had the same wall-windows as the rest of the house. It had a lovely view of the river.

Achilles sat on the end of the bed gazing off into the distance. No black this time, no mourning braid. Yet, he still looked like a funeral. Even in profile, a deep melancholy could be seen in the set of his face and the way his elbows rested against his knees. There was no artifice to be seen, no rage. This was Achilles, raw.

The corner of Achilles’ eye wrinkled when Patroclus entered, but he didn’t turn. He stayed exactly as he was, hunched over, eyes directed at the darkening horizon. Patroclus took a moment just to look. Just to see this man, this beautiful man, that he had left behind.

Soon the silence was too powerful. It compelled speech.

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus said. How trite his guilt sounded when exposed to open air.

Achilles turned his head the barest bit.

“You were always free to go,” Achilles said softly. He blinked once, twice, then inhaled quickly. “Patroclus.” The name came out in gasp, both question and plea.

“I didn’t want to leave,” Patroclus tried to answer. “I thought it was right, but…I don’t know. I don’t know. Nothing seems right anymore.”

Achilles sat up straighter, his elbows lifting off his knees.

“You’re supposed to know what’s right,” Achilles said. “You were supposed to tell me.”

Patroclus took a step into the room. “Do you hate me?”

Achilles finally looked at Patroclus. His eyes were red-rimmed, tired, and more vivid than Patroclus had ever seen them. The room was darkening quickly, which Patroclus resented; he wanted to look and look and look, even if it hurt.

“Don’t you hate me?” Achilles asked back. “You're the one who left.”

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus said again.

“Don’t apologize,” Achilles said. “You left, and I had to face some things about myself. I tried to handle things differently. Out of respect for you.”

“What did you do?” Patroclus asked. This was what he’d longed for and dreaded; what had Achilles done in his absence?

“I needed to understand why you…why you went to Hector.” Achilles’ voice broke half way through, but he kept going. He stood, body turning toward Patroclus like a plant’s leaves toward the sun. “I asked myself the questions. Like we did with the fig.”

Patroclus gripped the sleeves of his jacket. He’d berated himself for his expectations already, but still. This isn’t what he’d expected to hear. “Questions?”

“I went through the feelings part quick.” Achilles shuffled a few steps closer to Patroclus. “I couldn’t believe it at first. I threw Odysseus out of the room when he told me what happened.” Achilles forehead scrunched up. “You told me to take him as _therapon_ because you were leaving?”

“I wanted you to have someone,” Patroclus whispered.

“I didn’t want him,” Achilles snapped. Then he softened back to that terrible resignation. “But that’s not what I came here to say.”

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus said, twisted up. 

“You left,” Achilles said. “I felt like I was made out of sand and someone threw water on me. When I couldn’t stand the feelings anymore, I moved to what I actually knew. You didn’t want me to mess with Briseis, but I was going to do it anyway. You made me think you were going along with me, you tricked Odysseus, you stole military intelligence, and you went to Hector and Paris.”

Achilles was close. The same irresistible connection Patroclus had always felt between them, the same connection that made him say yes to Achilles the day they met, hadn’t faded in the slightest. Patroclus could almost see the ley lines between them, golden and glowing.

Patroclus wondered what it meant. He’d expected anger, but Achilles didn’t seem angry, not with Patroclus. He did look tired. Beaten down. Patroclus was left frightened and shamed and acutely aware that they would not be leaving this glass house together.

“Odysseus wanted to have you killed,” Achilles grimaced. “I forbade that, of course. Still, I had to ask myself: why did you do it? I think maybe I disappointed you one too many times. I was never good enough for you."

Patroclus shook his head. The denial came quick. “No.”

“You are,” Achilles insisted. His fingers curled into fists. “I don’t know when to stop. I’m like a fucking child, Patroclus. Briseis and Paris…they wanted to take Greece away from me, and they wanted to take you, and that’s all I could see. I may as well have flown you to Messembria myself. So, no, I don’t hate you. I can’t, not ever. I’m the monster here. I have to face it.”

“That’s not true at all.” Patroclus hoped the weight of his conviction would sink the words deep into Achilles’ bones. “Achilles, listen to me. There’s still one more question, right? How are we the same? You’re not the only one who does dumb, violent stuff, or manipulates other people, or any of that. We both kill. We both conquer. We both hurt each other out of selfishness. Except, I think maybe I’m worse because I’ve spent the last year and half acting like I’m above it.”

Patroclus lifted his hands up, then let them fall. He felt gravity like he never had before; the more he spoke, the more he was sure he was saying something true. “I’ve done nothing but think for days. I can’t save anyone. I never should have tried. I should have done things different from the start.”

Achilles watched him for a moment, then blinked slowly. His hands relaxed. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if you’re a monster, I’m a monster. Or if I’m a monster, you’re a monster, and so is everyone standing outside right now. Or none us are and it was never real in the first place.”

They looked at each other.

Achilles cocked his head to the side. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

“I can’t remember what life was like before you,” Patroclus explained. He moved his weight from one foot to the other. “I’ve had a taste now of what life would be like after you. I don’t want it. But I don’t know how to fix it, and I’m afraid if I try I’ll make everything worse.”

Achilles frowned. “You feel guilty for hurting me. I’m grateful, but if we’re both monsters, we’re not in the same league. You’re going to change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

“You will before the night is through.” Achilles paused, then brushed his fingers against Patroclus’ sleeve. “It’s okay though. I thought I remembered how much I…can I touch you? I think it might help.”

Patroclus’ breath caught. “You want to?”

Achilles nodded, his hand creeping back to Patroclus’ sleeve. “You’re what I came for.”

“Yes.”

Achilles drew closer. His hands moved up Patroclus’ arms, trailed over his chest, then dipped down to wrap around his waist. Patroclus held still. If he moved, if he blinked, this might be the end.

Achilles wasn’t having it. “Touch me back,” he whispered. “Please?”

Unwilling and unable to refuse, Patroclus let his body do what it wanted. He leaned into Achilles, his arms circling Achilles’ neck. He turned his face into Achilles’ hair, his soft hair, and took a deep breath.

How had it come to this? From wandering the forest to a dark house in Macedonia, and more lost than ever. Wider and smaller at the same time.

Meanwhile, Achilles’ face was pressed into Patroclus’ neck. “They won’t let you go,” he said.

Patroclus swallowed. “I don’t think so. Not now that they have me.”

“Why can’t I get at you?” Achilles said, despair creeping into his voice. He slid to his knees, his face against Patroclus’ stomach now, his hands clutching to the fabric on either side of Patroclus’ hips.

Patroclus blinked up at the ceiling, eyes stinging, hands cradling Achilles’ head.

“Whatever I do, it isn’t enough,” Achilles said. Each word squeezed out of him, thin and full of meaning. “I can’t change enough. I can’t make you stay. You taught me that. Damn you. Damn you.” He tilted his head up to look Patroclus in the eyes. “You don’t hate me?”

Cursing himself, Patroclus spared a hand to wipe his cheeks as he nodded. “No. You’re enough, Achilles. This is my fault.” 

Achilles’ body shuddered under Patroclus’ hands. He hid his face again. “I’m sorry I made you quit your residency. I’m sorry I made you move in with me. I’m sorry I got you stabbed. I’m just sorry.”

“You didn’t make me do anything,” Patroclus said. “We have some time. Why don’t we lay down? Calm ourselves.”

“Okay.”

Patroclus drew Achilles up, then down onto the bed. He shifted them until they lay in the middle, their hands clasped between them. The moon gave enough light for them to see each other, but only just. Patroclus trailed his fingers lightly down Achilles’ face and over his arm. Achilles relaxed after a while, his eyes falling half shut.

“We were always best like this,” Achilles said softly. “By ourselves. In the dark.” He freed his right hand and examined it closely before touching Patroclus once more. “It’s strange. I feel like playing guitar.”

“Remember Chiron’s?”

Achilles’ lips twitched up. “How could I forget? Our first time.” His lips twitched back down. “Then someone tried to kill you.”

“No, the first time.” Patroclus smoothed Achilles’ wrinkled nose with his thumb. “When you took me to meet Chiron. You played the guitar.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Patroclus sighed. “What would Chiron think of us now?”

Achilles grunted. “That’s nothing. What would mother think of us?

The very thought of Thetis was ice down Patroclus’ spine. She’d been a bad day away from killing him before he’d betrayed her son. He didn’t want to speculate what Thetis would do him now.

Instead of answering, Patroclus allowed time to pass in silence. Long minutes went by with nothing to mark their passing but Achilles’ breaths and his own heart beat.

Achilles was the one to break the silence. Staying still was never easy for him. “I think I’m better now,” he said.

“Better?”

“Maybe I should say ready,” Achilles said. He propped himself up on his elbow. “If I don’t get up now, I don’t think I ever will.”

Patroclus shifted up too. “Ready for what?”

Achilles got off the bed. He turned his back to Patroclus briefly, like he was gathering his thoughts. “I think you know,” he finally said.

“I don’t understand.”

“I saw Paris say something to you,” Achilles said. “Right before you came in. You must have realized.”

“Achilles.”

“Paris was never going to let me leave this house,” Achilles said. He held up his right hand, palm out. In it was the keychain with the button. Patroclus slapped his hand to his pocket. Nothing there. “Not that I wanted him to _let_ me do anything. May as well get this over with.”

Patroclus jumped up. “What are you doing?”

Achilles cocked his head. “The Anatolian rebellion ends tonight.” He pushed the button Patroclus never would have pushed and dropped it on the ground. “I told you you’d change your mind.”

The world had, a moment ago, been quiet and connected. Just the two of them. But Achilles had pressed the button. He’d pressed the button, and Hector always kept his promises. Hector was an honorable man.

Gunfire started up outside. Patroclus spun, ready to duck or fight or whatever, but he couldn’t see anything through the dark and the glass. He spun back to find Achilles with a standard-issue military Sig in his hands.

“I can’t worry about who I am anymore,” Achilles said. He was in fighting mode, muscles coiling and uncoiling with frightening efficiency. He flicked off his safety. Zero to sixty in a blink. “I have to do what I think is right too, and I think it’s right that you have choices. Once you’re free of me and them, you can do whatever you want. Finish your residency.”

Patroclus flailed forward, reaching for Achilles. Achilles steadied him, kissed him on the forehead, then pushed him backwards gently.

“You don’t know how much tonight means to me,” Achilles said. “Seeing you again, holding you again. The fact that you let me hold you. I’ll always have that.”

“Achilles, wait!”

“Stay up here, Patroclus.” Achilles edged toward the door. “Let me do what I’m meant to do. Then you can save the world.”

Patroclus looked around, but there was nothing to make sense of. “Were you planning this the whole time?”

“I needed a way to get Hector and Paris in the same place,” Achilles said. “One they would believe but wouldn’t be threatened by. I didn’t lie though. I am here for you.” He materialized a second gun which he handed to Patroclus. “In case you need it, though I don’t think you will. I won’t let anyone up here. Odysseus is taking care of things outside.”

Downstairs, glass shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of why this took so long is I re-wrote it 3 different times. This is the path I settled on. I can't believe I've been writing this story so long.


	19. hero's journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is violent.

Patroclus held the gun with both hands. “Achilles?”

Soft thuds echoed downstairs.

Achilles looked over his shoulder. “We’re out of time,” he said. A sad smile crossed his face. “Stay here. This won’t take long.”

He left.

Five shots came immediately, one after the other. Flashlight beams flared wildly across the landing as their owners fell to Achilles’ bullets. A hard thud announced a body on the stairs.

A brief pause. Another shot.

Patroclus cursed and ran forward, knees bent. Fuck staying. Achilles knew better.

He emerged on the landing just in time to see Achilles vault over the handrail at the top of the stairs. Bullets followed him, fired by Anatolians on the floor below. The glass panels on either side of the stairs blew apart, forcing Patroclus to throw an arm in front of his face.

Two more shots below. The second cut off the mangled scream precipitated by the first.

Patroclus took a breath. Not Achilles.

Staying low, he hurried onto the landing. He stepped over two black clad bodies and glass. Fingers ready, he peered into the moonlit darkness below.

Achilles was at the bottom of the stairs, his back to the wall. He reloaded his gun, then immediately swung both his hands down to sweep the weapon of the soldier who had just emerged from the kitchen. They went around the corner together and out of sight.

Patroclus ran down the stairs, leaping lightly over the body lying at the top. As he reached the bottom, Achilles appeared again, flipping an Anatolian soldier onto his back by the arm. Once the soldier was on his back, winded, Achilles lined up his shot.

The bullet took the soldier between the eyes.

Achilles stood there for a long moment, gun still pointed downwards. He took one deep breath, then another, before touching the dead man’s cheek with the tip of his boot. The touch elicited no movement.

Achilles smiled. Then he looked up and saw Patroclus.

The smile vanished.

“Damn it, Patroclus,” Achilles snarled. “This isn’t your fight anymore.”

New lights shone through the kitchen and living room. Achilles dodged behind the same wall where he’d reloaded moments before, eyes trained dead ahead.

Patroclus followed his gaze to the windows on the far side of the living room. They showed the reflections of two more soldiers moving further into the house, one on either side of the book case separating the kitchen and living room.

Achilles waited until they were almost on top on him. Then he struck. He shot the living room soldier in the side and leapt at him in the same motion. As Achilles collided with the injured soldier, he shot through the book case, catching the second soldier somewhere in the chest.

Almost too fast to see, Achilles twisted in air so he landed crouched over the soldier he’d shot in the side. With no wasted motion, Achilles shot the second soldier through the book case again, then shot the soldier underneath him.

Then he whipped his arm to the right and shot twice more.

A third soldier Patroclus hadn’t seen fell backwards into one of the windows and slid to the floor. Achilles hadn’t even looked in that direction.

The exchange was over in seconds.

Achilles didn’t pause. He was up and reloaded in a heartbeat, gun in front of him. He ran back into the kitchen before Patroclus could straighten from his crouch. The slap of two bodies colliding jolted Patroclus into motion.

A gun skittered over the floor and out of the kitchen. It rolled to a stop, the beam of the flashlight fixed on top of it pointed back where it’d come from. Patroclus followed it.

Achilles straddled a soldier on the floor near the kitchen’s sink. He was raining blows on the other man’s face and sides. The soldier’s heels beat a frantic rhythm against the hard wood.

Patroclus narrowed his eyes. This was a brawl. Something about this soldier made Achilles ditch his gun. This one had set Achilles off. This one was personal.

Achilles landed a particularly vicious blow, which sent the soldier’s helmet spinning into the far wall. Light flashed through the spaces between Achilles’ arms and body. It was just enough for Patroclus to glimpse dark curls and a fine-boned face, both dripping black.

If Paris trained for a million years, he still wouldn’t be good enough to beat Achilles in a fair fight. Yet, here he was. Had he thought the soldiers who’d come before would be enough? That ten or so trained fighters with guns would be enough to bring down the monster, Achilles Pelides?

Hubris. And Achilles was making Paris pay in blood and flesh.

Should Patroclus stop Achilles? Was this cruelty in excess of what the situation called for? In this moment, this exact moment, did it matter?

Not enough. Patroclus said nothing and watched.

Which gave him a perfect view of Hector rounding the kitchen corner.

Achilles saw Hector a split second later. Rather than throw himself backwards, he hauled Paris in front of him, a shield. Paris’ head lolled to the side.

Hector regarded them both with a steady eye.

“Pelides,” Hector spat. He motioned with his rifle. “Put my brother down and I won’t slaughter you where you sit.”

Achilles took Paris’ head in his hands. “If you think your bullet can travel through your brother and into me before I snap his neck, you’re wrong.”

To Hector’s credit, his voice held steady. “I don’t think you have a weapon. I’ll kill you, Pelides. If I have to.”

Patroclus stepped fully into the room. He aimed at Hector. “No.”

Achilles half turned. He made a high pitched noise, one-part frustration and three-parts fear. “Get out!”

“Patroclus?” Hector asked. “You pushed the button. I came to get you out. Like I promised.”

“I didn’t push it,” Patroclus said. He tried to be steady too. “Did you know about Paris’ plan? This was a trap!”

“Did he tell you that?” Hector nodded toward Achilles. “There was never any trap. On my honor.”

“It’s not your honor in question,” Patroclus said. “Drop your weapon.”

Hector grimaced. “It’s common for victims of abuse to feel protective of their abusers. That doesn’t mean you have to risk your life for him. Put the gun down.” Meanwhile, his gun never left Achilles.

“Achilles is not an abuser,” Patroclus said. “Why does everyone forget that I’m a soldier too? If Achilles dies, so do the rest of us. Call me selfish, but there it is.”

“For fuck’s sake, Patroclus,” Achilles yelled. Paris hung from his hands, dead weight. Achilles held him easily. “Get out of here!”

“You’re a good person, Patroclus,” Hector said. His eyes flicked to Patroclus. “You did the right thing once. I know it’s hard, but you can do it again. Put the gun down. Do it for Briseis if you won’t do it for yourself.”

“Why does being a good person mean doing what you say?” Patroclus said. He ignored the part about Briseis. He wondered what she would do if she were here. Would she have her gun pointed at Patroclus? Would she pull the trigger? “Put _your_ gun down. We’ll walk out of here and go back to shooting from a distance. Like good people.”

“You know I can’t.”

Achilles was freaking out on the floor. “Patroclus, just go–”

He cut himself off with a startled roar.

Paris hadn’t been as down for the count as he seemed. While the three of them had been distracted with each other, Paris had slipped a knife out his thigh holster.

The knife dripped Achilles’ blood. It looked like he’d caught Achilles on the outside of his left hip.

Achilles twisted well enough that Paris’ next thrust bit into the meat of his left thigh instead of his gut. But Achilles was expecting pain. No flinching this time. Before Paris could strike again, Achilles caught his wrist and twisted it until the knife fell. Then Achilles used both arms to cradle Paris’ head, careful to keep Paris’ body between him and Hector. An unholy embrace for an unholy time.

Gun shots still sounded from outside, but their pace was slowing.

“Just walk away, Hector,” Patroclus said, desperate. “Walk away and Achilles will let Paris go. We can get out of this. We can all get out of this.”

Hector didn’t even bother to shake his head.

“It’s like you don’t know him at all, Patroclus,” he said, sparing a glance for Patroclus. “I’m sorry it had to come to this.” He resettled his grip on his gun and addressed Achilles once again. “You don’t get to take one more thing from my people. Drop my brother or I’ll take Patroclus from you.”

Righteous and fierce and _right_ , Hector spoke the words like the Prince he was. His arms twitched, the barrel of his gun beginning to move away from Achilles.

Adrenaline spike through Patroclus, ice and fire at the same time. The whole world slowed.

Achilles snarled, rose to a crouch. His legs coiled underneath him. His arms flexed and wrenched.

Paris fell to Achilles’ feet, limp.

Hector screamed.

Patroclus felt the bullet hit him before he heard it. One minute he was standing, the next he was on the ground, left shoulder on fire. The shock of it dazed him. Distantly, like he was underwater, he heard more shots.

Achilles.

Patroclus was laying on the floor doing nothing and Hector could be killing Achilles.

Unacceptable.

Adrenaline helped Patroclus roll onto his side, then to his knees. Vision blurry, he saw Achilles fighting Hector on the other side of the kitchen. Normally, Achilles would dominate in a fight like this. Hector had been a soldier his whole life, but Achilles was in a whole other league. Achilles was already injured though. Two knife wounds and a bullet, maybe more than one.

Patroclus watched as Achilles slipped on his own blood, falling hard on one knee. Relentless, Hector bore down on him.

Unacceptable. Absolutely not.

Patroclus staggered to his feet. The burning in his arm was fading under the force of something bigger. Something darker.

Him and Achilles. Just two run-of-the-mill monsters. Or lovers. Or…who even knew.

His gun was lost, but Paris’ knife still rested next to Paris’ body. He picked it up as Hector bashed Achilles’ beautiful face into the hard-wood kitchen floor. He straightened as Hector reached for the handgun strapped to his thigh.

Patroclus launched himself across the room. He tackled Hector, taking him by surprise. Hector fell on his back and Patroclus fell on top of him. Achilles moved weakly on the ground behind them.

Hector caught Patroclus’ hand with his own as Patroclus sent the knife straight at Hector’s throat. On any other day, Hector could have stopped the knife. He was stronger than Patroclus, more experienced.

But not tonight.

The knife cut through the air slowly, inexorably. Hector shook his head frantically, arms straining. Almost there. Another inch.

Patroclus was dimly aware of Achilles coughing wetly just behind him.

“No,” Achilles wheezed. “Patroclus. Stop.”

“You were right,” Patroclus said. His own voice sounded far away. “This ends tonight.”

A good guy. That’s what Hector was. A man with a family too, which was part of it, but not everything. Hector was loyal. Fair. A victim of colonialism fighting against his oppressors. Survivor of war. Compassionate. A man trying to do right by his brother and his people. A man who had come when the button was pushed, no questions asked.

In any story but this one, Hector was the hero. Hector was the one who overcame terrible odds to free his people from the shackles of Greece and the tyranny of evil men.

With one final effort, Patroclus slid the knife home. Hector’s eyes went wide, his hands falling away from Patroclus’ arms.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Patroclus wasn’t supposed to kill Hector. Patroclus wasn’t supposed to watch as the last, best hope of Anatolia drowned in his own blood on a kitchen floor in rural Macedonia. Most of all, Patroclus wasn’t supposed to feel satisfaction as he ripped the knife sideways, the final nail in the coffin.

Was this inevitable? Was it always going to be like this? Knelt over Hector’s body, Patroclus looked down at his hands. They dripped blood. Had he always been this? Had Achilles turned him into this?

He grimaced. In the dark, it must look like a smile. Or a dream. His worst dream. A blood stained train car in the middle of a forest.

Achilles and Patroclus.

He rolled off Hector and onto his back. His shoulder burned again. He welcomed the pain.

“Patroclus?”

Achilles crawled over, his hand pressed against his stomach. He must have been shot then. In the same place he’d been hurt the day they met. Scars over scars over scars. Was it possible to run out of skin?

“Patroclus. Say something.”

Patroclus looked Achilles in the eye.

“This ends tonight,” Patroclus said. He was starting to feel lightheaded. He'd never loved anything he hadn't betrayed. “Do you understand, Achilles. This ends here. We can’t do this anymore. We can’t. We can’t. We can’t not care. We can’t.”

The words fell from his lips like a prayer. He couldn’t stop saying them.

“We can’t. We can’t. We can’t.”

Achilles brushed his fingers across Patroclus’ face.

“I know, love,” Achilles said. “I knew before I came.”

Outside the house, the night fell quiet.


	20. down there by the train

Patroclus turned off the alarm. He rolled onto his back. Weak sunlight illuminated his little room. Not that there was much to illuminate. He had a desk. A couple lamps. A bookshelf with some medical texts. A cheap blue rug left by the last guy who’d rented the apartment. Peeling paint. Twin bed. Quiet.

Nothing much. It was where he lived now.

He took a deep breath. Got of bed. Brushed his teeth for two full minutes. Didn’t shower. He wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, but he knew he should eat something before he left for work. That was sensible. He cut up an apricot and stirred the pieces into yogurt. Apricot wasn’t his favorite, but he was out of everything else. He needed to go shopping.

The yogurt went down slowly. Patroclus picked some up in the spoon and let if drop back into the bowl. Maybe voices would help. The television was a big old thing, another leftover from the previous tenant. He turned it on.

The morning news was on. Normally he avoided the news like the plague. He was about to change the channel when a picture of Achilles came on the screen. The three newscasters were talking about him. They were sitting around a round table, two men and woman, other news scrolling below them.

“…the Greek people ready?” the gray-haired man was saying. “It’s one thing to have a loose cannon as a prince, but we’re talking about the kingship here.”

Patroclus blinked, remote in hand.

The woman scoffed. “It’s not like we didn’t know this was going to happen. Prince Achilles is a war hero. He led us to victory against Thrace despite the setbacks. Greece needs that kind of strength, especially with the recent unrest in Macedonia.”

“What about his judgment?” asked the third man. “That business with his first _therapon_ was an embarrassment. I don’t know if Prince Achilles has the temperament to lead us during peace time. Perhaps it’s time for the Queen to return from Anatolia.”

“We have a clear line of succession in this country for a reason,” the woman argued. “King Peleus is dead. Prince Achilles will be crowned soon enough. It is the duty of all true Greeks to support him…”

Patroclus turned the television off. Then he dropped the yogurt into the sink. The sound of the bowl hitting the metal sink was too loud for the morning.

Achilles’ father was dead.

Achilles wasn’t close to his father. That shipped sailed long ago when Thetis left Peleus. They’d never divorced – what would the people think? – but Thetis had left Athens and taken Achilles with her. She’d sent Achilles to Chiron soon after. As far as Patroclus knew, Achilles rarely went back and Peleus rarely asked him to.

Neglectful fathers were something they had in common.

Still. Achilles’ father was dead. Patroclus didn’t know how he’d feel when his own father finally dropped dead, but he imagined he would feel some kind of pain. Even if just for all that could have been. Achilles must be hurting.

Patroclus offered up the same prayer he’d offered most days for the past year and half. Please let Achilles be alright. There was no way for Patroclus to know for sure and no one to ask. Except, maybe, one person. But Patroclus had so far been too cowardly to make that call. Too many broken promises.

Patroclus dressed for work in silence.

His shift at the clinic was slow. With only a few cases of summer flu and some stitches to distract him, he had plenty of time to dwell on the morning’s news. Patroclus avoided thinking of Achilles too much most days. The pace of the Belen clinic was slower than what he’d gotten used to in Troy, but work was work. It occupied him well enough.

Sometimes work failed to occupy him. At those times, thoughts of Achilles came like a flood. And not just Achilles. Briseis too, though not as often. He hadn’t spoken to her either since Macedonia. Returning to Belen was the only apology he could make.

He ate chicken salad at lunch. Did paperwork through the afternoon into the evening. Achilles was never far from his thoughts. The more time passed, the more he ached to know if Achilles was alright. King Achilles, ruler of Greece, Anatolia, and Thrace. Achilles the man, who laughed as he ran barefoot into the ocean.

Patroclus bid good evening to the nurse coming on shift and went home as the sun sunk below the horizon.

The apartment was full of long shadows. Patroclus entered with his phone in hand. He set down his bag, closed the door behind him, and put the kettle on. His phone was still in his hand. He bent so his forehead touched the kitchen counter and looked at his phone. He looked for so long the kettle screamed. Who was he trying to fool?

Patroclus took the kettle off the heat and called Chiron. He hoped Chiron answered. If his call went to voicemail, Patroclus didn’t think he’d have the nerve to try again.

Chiron answered after two rings.

“Hello, Patroclus,” Chiron said.

“Hello.”

“How can I help you?”

His voice was the same as before, deep and warm, even over the phone. Welcoming. That was a good sign, right? Patroclus forged ahead.

“I know I have no right to, to ask,” he started, then stumbled. Then tried again. It was hard to get the words past the beating of his heart. “I…I wondered if you know how he’s doing?”

“I flew to Athens this morning,” Chiron said. “He’s here. He’s trying to be strong. He doesn’t want Thetis to see him mourn.”

Thetis would display proper grief in public. In private, she must be throwing one hell of a party.

“Oh,” Patroclus said. He shifted his phone to his other hand. “It’s good you’re there. Does he have enough people? Enough people to support him?”

Chiron hummed. “Odysseus is here. Deidameia is here too, for what it’s worth. But what Achilles needs…he felt lost before Peleus died. He worries about what kind of king he’ll be. It is a new thing for him. Worrying about how his actions will affect others. It’s not easy.”

Patroclus was quiet for a moment. He wondered how much of that worry was because of him. Then he wondered how narcissistic it was for him to assume Achilles still cared that much about what he thought.

“I don’t know what to do,” Patroclus ventured. “Should I try to talk to him? Would that help or make things worse?” He hesitated. “I just want him to be happy.”

Chiron sighed.

“Son,” he said. “Let me ask you a question. Are you happy?”

Patroclus poured hot water into his cup, his hand shaking. The tea bag floated before it sank. Brown tendrils swirled around it. There was no reason to lie.

“No.”

“And that’s alright,” Chiron said gently. “That was the wrong question to ask, I think. What I really want to know is are you interested in what you’re doing?”

“Does it matter?” Patroclus answered, because of course he wasn’t interested in his job or this little place. He dipped the tea bag in and out of the water. “I have to respect myself. I have to hold myself accountable for what I do, regardless of what anyone else does.”

Achilles hadn’t killed Hector. That was all Patroclus. Patroclus’ hands on the knife that slid into the neck. Blood drops on Patroclus’ face. Patroclus’ aching shoulder.

Horror in Achilles’ eyes. Horror at what Patroclus was capable of.

He meant what he said that night at the house. No more. Leaving, coming to this place of nothing, it was all part of it. It was the only solution he could think of at the time.

Chiron hummed in sympathy. “I’m not going to try to tell you what to do. I’m not in that business.” He paused, then sighed again. “But I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’re wasted where you are, Patroclus. I think you're bored. I know you’ve chosen to be bored, but you’ve gone from one extreme to another. You have options other than conqueror and monk.”

Patroclus shook his head. “The middle path? I tried that before. It didn’t work. I hated what I became at the end, Chiron. I won’t put myself in that position again.”

“Who says you have to?” Chiron asked. “The King is dead, and the world is changed. Achilles is changed. You are changed. Nothing says your relationship with him is the one thing that has to stay the same. And on a personal note…” Chiron cleared his throat before continuing. “I care about Achilles a great deal. Speaking selfishly, I hope you consider speaking to him again. No more than that, if you like, but he’s better with you in his life. And I don’t think I’m wrong in saying your life was better with him in it, even if Thetis and the war got between you. You’re both wiser now. You can help each other. Our Achilles is going to need all the help he can get.”

“Why should I be the one who helps him?”

“Because you want to be.”

Patroclus let his tea bag fall to the counter. It hit with a wet heaviness that made him shiver. He did want to. He’d wanted to be the one to help Achilles since the day they met.

“It’ll have to be you who reaches out to him,” Chiron went on. “He doesn’t feel entitled to you. He thinks he ruined your life.”

Achilles hadn’t ruined Patroclus’ life. Patroclus had ruined his own life. He was so preoccupied with checking Achilles that he hadn’t checked himself. Patroclus hadn’t left because he thought he was better than Achilles. The opposite was true. They were alike in some of the worst ways. If they were together, they’d consume each other.

Wouldn’t they?

“He didn’t ruin my life,” Patroclus said.

“I know,” Chiron said. “I know. Think about making the trip to Athens for the funeral. I can help arrange it. You don’t have to decide right this second, but I’m asking you to think about it. I think I can ask that much on behalf of my boy. Let me know what you decide tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Patroclus said softly. “I promise I’ll think about.”

Patroclus said his goodbyes and hung up. He stood at the counter for a while drinking his tea.

His ethics were what forced him to leave Achilles: once, twice, three times. He’d gone back to Achilles too, after he’d had time to stop and consider what it was he wanted to accomplish: once, twice…three times?

Plus, it was fucking awful here.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it was Deidameia who met him at the airport.

“I can’t believe I’ve had to do this twice now,” she snapped, opening the door for him. “Boys. Don’t know up from down.”

“Hello, Deidameia,” Patroclus said. He slid awkwardly into the seat next to her. The inside of the car was all black. The driver wore all black. Deidameia was in all black too, a conservatively cut dress that looked too hot for the weather.

All was in mourning. The king was dead.

“That’ll be Queen Deidameia to you, soon enough,” she said with a toss of her hair.

Because she was Achilles’ wife. Right. How did Patroclus always manage to forget that?

“I appreciate you arranging the flight,” Patroclus said. “And the ride.”

“It was the only way to get you here,” Deidameia said. She looked at him, then down at her phone, then back at him. “Thetis put you on a no-fly list. You wouldn’t have been able to enter the country on a commercial airline. This was easier. We’ve had so many diplomatic visitors arriving for the funeral. No one will notice one more private jet.”

Patroclus’ eyes went wide. He suddenly felt nervous. “Did Achilles–”

“Achilles didn’t know. Doesn’t know.”

Patroclus offered Deidameia a nod a genuine appreciation. “Thank you double then. You’re going against Thetis to help me.”

“To help me,” Deidameia said, a wicked smile appearing on her face. “Like I said. A few more days and Thetis won’t be Queen anymore. It’ll make this damned marriage worth it.”

What kind of Queen would Deidameia be? A better Queen than Thetis, surely. Deidameia was ambitious, but only as far as her own life was concerned. She didn’t have the colonial ambitions that tempted Thetis to war after war. And Deidameia was quite young, younger than Achilles. Definitely not from the same war-is-honor generation that produced Thetis.

Patroclus leaned his head against the car window and watched Athens’ sun-bleached buildings slip past. How old was Deidameia now? Twenty-five, maybe twenty-six? It was an unwelcome reminder of how much time had passed since he’d last seen Achilles. Enough time for him to have missed Achilles’ last two birthdays. In fact, Achilles had turned twenty-eight less than three weeks ago. A summer baby, Achilles. Born to heat.

And Patroclus was thirty now. Thirty-fucking-years old. He’d spent his thirtieth birthday on a thirty-six-hour shift at Trojan General. He’d requested the shift months in advance. Over a year had passed since Macedonia, and he still couldn’t face the thought of spending his birthday alone.

“What if he doesn’t want to see me,” Patroclus said to the glass.

Deidameia tsked at him. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Well, then.

Athens looked almost the same as he remembered. A little smaller than it used to, but that made sense. He hadn’t been here since he was a teenager, and homecomings were supposed to feel like an ill-fitting sweater. Or was that reunions?

Traffic increased as they approached the Palace. The Palace was a boxy, three-tiered building in the middle of downtown Athens. Patroclus had never been fond of it, not since he’d visited with his schoolmates when he was ten. The Palace Gardens, though, which sat just behind the Palace, were truly spectacular. They were a huge, shady refuge from the rest of the city. Most the Gardens were open to the public, but the upper garden was reserved for the Royal Family.

According to Deidameia, Achilles was taking his lunch there today.

The car stopped near the gardens. Deidameia barely looked up when Patroclus opened the door.

“Go in the Guard’s Gate,” she said. “They know you’re coming.”

Patroclus stepped into the midday sun. He turned around, his hand on the top of the door frame.

“Thanks,” he said again. He hoped she understood what he meant.

She flapped her hand at him, acknowledging and dismissing him all at once. He nodded and shut the door. The car pulled away from the curbed and slowly merged back into traffic.

The gardens were beautifully manicured. Patroclus entered as he’d been instructed, nodding at the guards as he passed. The grass was square and vibrant, the paths straight and stark white. Circular stone fountains bubbled in every clearing. Red and purple flowers marched through the middle of everything in tidy rows.

Patroclus spotted a shady path to the right where two sets of leafy branches arched together over a series of columns. His feet pointed him there of their own accord. He turned onto the path and there was Achilles twenty feet ahead.

Achilles was a sitting on stone bench between two columns, a sandwich in his right hand. His left hand was picking little pieces of bread away from the sandwich to throw to the pigeons. His head came up when he heard Patroclus’ footsteps.

“Hello, Achilles,” Patroclus said. Profound relief softened his limbs as Achilles stood to face him.

“Patroclus?”

“Hello,” Patroclus said again, before his brain could stop him. Heat jumped to his cheeks.

“Are you really…?” Achilles glanced behind him, then back at Patroclus, his eyes wide. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It was last minute,” Patroclus hurried to say. No need to bring Thetis into this yet. He held up his hands, palms out. “I wanted to give you my condolences. In person. I wanted to see you…how you are.” He paused awkwardly. It’d been so long. “How are you?”

Achilles opened his mouth a few times before anything came out.

“My dad died.”

Achilles’ voice was matter-of-fact, but the tightness around his eyes gave him away. Like Deidameia, Achilles was dressed in mourning attire. Black, long-sleeved tunic and leggings. Braided hair. Pale in the mottled light. Not okay.

Achilles threw the rest of the sandwich to the birds.

“How are you here?” Achilles asked. His eyes burned through the shadowy walk. “Not that it’s not wonderful to see you. It’s always the best thing to see you. It’s been more than a year though. I thought you’d, you know. Made a life for yourself.”

Both Patroclus’ hands came up to cover his mouth.

“I talked to Chiron,” Patroclus said, not sure which part he should address first.

Achilles shook his head twice. “I didn’t tell him to call you. I swear.”

“I know,” Patroclus said, reassuring. “I know. I called him. I wanted to know if you were alright. He talked some sense into me.”

“He talked sense into you?” Achilles ran his hands over his hair and down the braid, then let his hands drop with a huff. “But you’ve finished your residency, yes? You’re a real doctor now. You’re out there helping people, just like you always wanted. Sense would have been going on with your life. Not flying to a different country to check up on an ex-boyfriend. You really didn’t have to do this, Patroclus.”

Ex-boyfriend? Patroclus mouthed the word. It felt wrong in his mouth.

“I didn’t have to come,” Patroclus insisted. “Chiron didn’t guilt me into it or anything. Your dad just died, Achilles. You’re about to be crowned! I wanted to come.”

“For how long?” Achilles demanded.

“What?”

“When are you leaving?”

Patroclus felt flat-footed. Totally off-kilter. “I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t know.”

Achilles spun around for a moment before spinning again to face Patroclus.

“I can’t do this,” Achilles said, completely in earnest. Pleading. “I wish I could do this for you. But I can’t. I’m so sorry, Patroclus. It’s too hard.” He backed away carefully. “If you need anything, anything at all, ask Chiron. Anytime. Take care of yourself.”

With one last pained sound, Achilles turned heel and left.

 

* * *

 

The funeral was a long, stately affair. Patroclus watched it on the television in his fancy hotel room. It was held in the stone amphitheater on the far side of the Palace Garden, the one with the stone benches carved out of the earth itself. Achilles sat front and center, cameras hovering all about him. The casket couldn’t be more than ten feet away.

From the beginning of the funeral to the end, Achilles didn’t cry. Deidameia, who sat to Achilles’ right, cried the entire time. Thetis, who sat on Achilles’ left, wore a black veil. Patroclus could barely see her face through the lace.

Patroclus turned the television off.

Achilles walked away from him. He’d never done that before. It had always been Patroclus with the decision to stay or go. It had always been Patroclus struggling with himself.

Chiron was right about one thing. Things had changed. But maybe he wasn’t right about the rest. Maybe it had been unfair of Patroclus to show up in Athens with no warning and no plan. Just because Achilles was lost – if he was lost – didn’t mean Patroclus was the one to find him or that Achilles wanted to be found. Judging from the way Achilles reacted in the Garden, Patroclus was only making life more difficult for him.

A quiet return to Anatolia was best, obviously. There was no reason to wait for Deidameia or Chiron to arrange for his departure either. Thetis might not have wanted him entering Greece, but she wouldn’t have a problem with him _leaving_ , surely. A commercial flight would be fine. Patroclus could afford it.

The two of them had separated for a reason. Patroclus had left for a reason. Achilles was smart enough to remember that when Patroclus couldn’t. Achilles had a bigger destiny than one dumb Greek boy.

Booking a flight, though, could wait for an hour or two. Sleep had eluded Patroclus the night before. Too many nerves lighting him up. And today’s reunion with Achilles…Achilles was lovely as ever. Patroclus’ heart would never not beat faster seeing him. Patroclus would never not be in love. Today was a real punch in the gut.

_I can’t do this_.

So that’s how it felt.

Patroclus wiped a tear from his cheek. He needed to get over himself. He needed a nap.

 

* * *

 

Hard knocking woke Patroclus. It was still bright outside, the light shading toward orange. Not too much time had passed then.

Patroclus stood. He tried to smooth some wrinkles out his black slacks and failed. He tried to push his curly hair flat and failed there too. His eyelids felt glued together, and his body felt empty. Nothing for it. Patroclus opened the door.

It was Achilles, still in his funeral clothes. Eyes a little wild, he slapped the palm of his hand against the open door like he was afraid Patroclus was going to shut it on him.

“Can I come in?”

Patroclus could only nod and move aside. His heart and stomach both jumped into his throat.

Achilles brushed past him. He surveyed the room quickly, his eyes scanning from Patroclus’ bag on the desk to his shoes in the corner to the mussed sheets on the bed.

Patroclus shut the door. Achilles was here. Why was he here?

“I can’t have you and lose you again,” Achilles said. He turned, hands crossed over his chest. “I’ve done it before. I can’t do it again. It was made clear to me that I may not have expressed that fully in the Garden. So I’m saying it now. Clearly.”

Patroclus nodded slowly.

“There’s some other things I want to say,” Achilles continued. “Please, just listen. Then you can say whatever it is you’re going to say. I’m never going to get this out otherwise. Okay?”

Patroclus nodded again. The whiplash feeling of seeing Achilles hadn’t faded. All he could do was listen and watch. The light coming from the window lit Achilles’ from behind, a glowing aura.  

“In the time since I met you, I’ve had some of my illusions stripped away. Some of them were about me. I mean, I get it. The world doesn’t care about me. History isn’t waiting for me. You’re not even waiting for me. Though I think I lost my illusions about you too. You’re not perfect.”

Achilles hunched over a bit more. Patroclus gave him a half smile. Neither of them were perfect.

“I’m a small, little person, Patroclus,” Achilles said. His breaths were starting to come faster, his words strained. “Eternity is so big and so is the world. That scares me. You understand that, right? How much it scares me?”

Another nod. Patroclus had also known. He also knew fear wasn’t one of the sins. Pride, wrath, greed; of course, to all three. Not fear.

“What am I worth if I’m not as big as all that? Or, just as scary, what are _you_ worth now that I know _you’re_ not as big as all that?”

Drawing closer, Achilles uncrossed his arms and let them dangle at his sides. He didn’t stop until he was standing just in front of Patroclus.

“There’s only one answer I can think of, Patroclus,” Achilles said softly. “You’re small, but you still mean so much. I sat through my father’s funeral today. I don’t want to take his place. I don’t want to be the man I was before, the one he and mother wanted. I want to make a place for me. I want to make a place for myself in this world, here.”

He took Patroclus hands in his. He turned one over, traced a line across Patroclus’ palm. The light touch made Patroclus shiver.

“I wonder if we can forgive each other,” Achilles said. He looked Patroclus in the eye. “Or ourselves, I guess. Chiron says that’s more important. I wonder if we can do it. Because I think we could make a place for us in this world too. A little one, maybe a sad one? Maybe a kinder one than we’ve seen so far. I want to be more than a monster. I want my life to mean something, and I think I could build that with you.”

Overwhelming. Achilles was overwhelming. The effect had not lessened over time.

“What about your mother?” Patroclus couldn’t help but ask. “What about Odysseus? What about your people? I’m the man who betrayed his _therapon_. They’ll never allow it.”

Achilles put a finger over Patroclus’ lips.

“One more thing,” he said, ignoring Patroclus’ objections. “You don’t have to do this. You can go back to your own life. You’ll be great, I know it. But if you’re going to go back, do it now. If you’re not committed totally, don’t mess around. My hopes went way up when I saw you this afternoon. That’s dangerous for me. You’re the kindest person I know. If you’re just here to be kind, it would be nicer for you to leave me be. If you feel like you can’t be true to yourself around me, you should go. But…Patroclus.” He gripped the sides of Patroclus’ face. “Patroclus. I don’t know what else I can say. I don’t know any other way forward.”

Patroclus conjured Achilles as he knew him. Achilles, grinning as figs blur in his hands. His shirt bunched in Achilles’ hands. _If you have nightmares, wake me up_. Achilles, shimmering under a hundred tiny rainbows as he shot out of a river. Hands cradling a guitar, sweet music pouring forth. A secret whispered thick and warm into the dark. _You’re my best friend._

Achilles at the beginning, eyes flashing the deep green of moss and trees. Achilles bleeding from the belly in front of an old train car. An old, rusted-out train car, full of second life. Full of spiders and rabbits and squirrels.

If Patroclus could go back there, back to the beginning, would he do it?

_If you’re a monster, I’m a monster_.

There’s no such thing as monsters.

No more illusions. No more hiding. They’d been though the fire. They could do it.

Patroclus turned Achilles’ hands in his. Kissed the knuckles. Achilles was right. Smallness was the only way forward.

“Then let’s be small together,” Patroclus said. Golden, blurry dusk spilled between them, poured across them. “I care about myself and you. I care about the place we make, and the place that makes us.”

“Let’s care together,” Achilles said. He wrapped Patroclus up in his arms, kissing the side of his mouth as he went. The thick warmth of his breath easy against Patroclus’ ear. “No more excuses. We’re responsible.”

Patroclus squeezed Achilles tighter. Nodded. Random cruelties of the world be damned. They were neither dead nor divine. They’ve hurt the ones who loved them and more. They’ve taken the low road. No more. No more wallowing in darkness and shame.

“No more,” Patroclus agreed. “No more.”

Achilles smiled into him and the beauty of it blazed a trail of stars through the velvet sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of story. I've been writing so long I had to go back to the first chapter to remind myself why I started in the first place. Thanks for reading, thanks for commenting, thanks for everything.


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